


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by moon_opals



Series: Hearth & Home [1]
Category: Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Dumb Young Ducks Fall In love, F/M, Family, Freeform, Growing Old Together, Hurt/Comfort, Old Age, Resolved Sexual Tension, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Contrary to what historians vehemently debated a full century later, avoiding the beast of White Agony Plains was much easier than what was concluded. All Goldie had to do was run in the opposite direction of the mammoth’s furious roars, and this she accomplished without breaking a sweat, a natural consequence of spending five years encased in a glacier.But what if...just what if...those researchers missed the mark in their research? What if...through random happenstance and moral epiphany she returned to where Scrooge was interred and freed him?What if Goldie decided she loved Scrooge more than gold?This is the story historians missed.





	1. 1902: Thaw the Frozen Heart

Contrary to what historians vehemently debated a full century later (and then some), avoiding the beast of White Agony Plains was much easier than what was concluded. All Goldie had to do was run in the opposite direction of the mammoth’s furious roars that clamored around her, threatening to suffocate her in every direction within the vicinity. She accomplished this feat without breaking a sweat, a natural consequence of spending five years encased in a glacier.

By time she reached his cabin in the center of the plains, ice had melted completely into her clothes. Her pants and blouse clung uncomfortably to her feathers, and she stumbled inside, panting for breath and warmth. Her extraneous activity usually claimed a distant warm sensation to her muscles, but as she threw the remaining logs into an iron stove and found spare blankets (gratefully unfrozen) under his bed, she removed every soaked article of clothing off her body.

A small worry took root while she waited for the stove to heat up. _“If it’s broken,”_ the worry mumbled, _“I’ll have to make the half a day journey back to town.”_ She and her worry knew she wasn’t prepared to venture into the wilderness at this time. Warming her arms under the blanket, she stared into the stove’s innards and smiled at the slowly burning embers. There was time to spare.

It didn’t take long after the initial wait. While spring’s chill was an unfortunate seasonal feature, the iron stove came through, and the cabin burned with manufactured heat. She dropped the blanket to her feet and opened her palms, rubbing them manically as she set her clothes to dry on a line she managed to hook on the ceiling. Her plan was falling together, despite its initial setbacks. She’d give it the night and depart in the morning. It’d take more than three days for the ice to thaw enough for an escape, and knowing Scrooge’s position, Goldie chuckled.

 _“It’s going to take a spell or three for him to get out,”_ she grinned. _“I feel bad for the sap, almost,”_ she sighed happily. Her stomach growled, and she rested her hand on top of it. _“I hear ya, lets salvage something for dinner,”_ this task was trickier than she expected. She searched high and low throughout his cabin and found three cans of beans in the lower cabinet with the can opener rusting slightly to the side.

 _“Stingy old miser,”_ she snapped the opener into the metal and pulled it apart. _“I know you could’ve afford a better one than this,”_ especially since food and goods had arrived earlier that month they departed on their journey. But when she removed the can’s top an odor more pungent and rancid than anything she had ever inhaled nearly struck her dumb. Goldie ran to open a window and chucked the can outside, not caring the metal can was a stain on the environment’s natural order. She repeated the same to a second can of beans and almost fainted dead on the floor; green-grey mold had buried itself deep into the beans. Her stomach recoiled in disgust.

 _“I may be hungry,”_ she grimaced over the rickety counter. _“But I am not hungry for death,”_ glaring at the last bean can, she threw it casually in her hand. She wondered what she was going to do if this can was like its siblings. Without anything to lose, Goldie shrugged and opened the can. She stared down and sniffed, anticipating the worst, but this can surprised her. The beans were a gooey color - a healthy, gooey color, and its scent was what she remembered beans to smell like before her memories were tainted.

“This will do.”

* * *

She found a spoon, did her best to clean it, and returned to the front of the stove where after a decent amount of warming, she spooned her can of beans and began to eat. Warm, gooey, not particularly delicious but nutrient filled, this would soothe her stomach until she made it back to town. She scooped spoonful after spoonful, quietly amazed that her stomach was capable of craving this much after being frozen in ice for five years.

 _“The first thing I’ll do is ensure the saloon is in working order,”_ she planned as she stirred, pulling forth of each and every worker under her employ. _“The girls better not have slacked off,”_ satisfaction hummed as her teeth rotated in slow, circular motions, grinding unreasonably tough beans into mush, _“and I’m sure those hard working idiots are more than ready to pay to see Glittering Goldie.”_ She grinned deviously. Yes, opportunity had thawed from the ice. She’d been missing for five years. Five long, unexplainable years, and no one had bothered to find out what happened to her.

Offense was the normal response at an apparent lack of interest (or care) for her sudden disappearance, but Goldie wasn’t what most people considered normal. Her mind began to chart glorious plans, meticulously moving piece after piece to her desired destination. If her saloon wasn’t in working order, she sniffed, then everyone would understand exactly why she was called The Ice Queen of Dawson.

 _“And with that old sourdough in ice,”_ she chuckled, spooning another bite of beans, _“I can get away with anything! I’ll have months ahead of him.”_ A solid two and a half months, three if she was lucky. Scrooge was trapped, and she could do anything she wanted, anything at all without consequence.

Scrooge was trapped. Goldie was in his cabin. _Alone._ Without consequence. Without supervision. Without worry of immediate capture. Goldie dropped her spoon, hearing it clang in the metal can as she swallowed. Scrooge was trapped in a glacier. She was in his cabin...with his stove and his canned beans and...Goldie spun around, eyes wide and mouth ajar, _“His deed of the claim and gold nugget!”_

She dropped her can and stood, swirling around. There was ample time to find it. Approximately two months and a half were at her fingertips, and Goldie intended to take advantage of it.

Afternoon tugged on the sun's lower rays. Tearing the cabin apart, turning it upside down wasn’t necessary. The bed and cabinet were too obvious. She tested the walls, just to be sure. Her fingers pressed firmly on the walls, searching for weakness. She held her breath, _“You are so easy to read, McDuck,”_ she bent her knees, pressing her fingers lower on the walls until she felt an unusual weakness. It was then she realized there was an outline - a thin, dim, easily meshed into the rest of the wall but clear as day in the early afternoon light. Digging her fingers, she tugged the door open, and gasped.

Logs were pushed to the side. _“I see where he keeps the spares,”_ she shimmed in. It was a small compartment, tiny, cramped, but the perfect place to house important documents. Cramped inside, she pushed down on the floor, cheering softly when one floorboard revealed an unexplainable hollowness. Grinning ear to ear, she opened the upper flap, glancing down, and saw the innocent appearing metal lock box, which was fortunately unlocked. Scrooge had assumed he’d be home by now. She strongly doubted he expected to spend the next half decade frozen in a glacier while an angered woolly mammoth stomped in search of him.

 _“His loss,”_ she gleamed. _“His terrible, unfortunately, and stupid loss,”_ there was the claim and beside it, Scrooge McDuck’s coveted gold nugget. _“It’s more beautiful than I imagined,”_ she sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye. _“But what’s this?”_ There was the deed, the nugget, and a third thing nestled underneath. Also a scrap of paper, this document wasn’t rolled and embedded with an official pin, authorizing its contents and the claim that formerly belonged to Scrooge McDuck. Meekly folded at sharp corners, its weathered, dirtied paper indicated it wasn’t of any great importance.

 _“But it was in this box,”_ Goldie thought. _“If it’s in this box, then,”_ she grinned greedily, tongue slipping over her beak in poorly contained hunger, _“it has to be worth something! Oh, maybe more than the gold and deed itself! Might be a treasure map to some Celtic treasure...or even a road to that McDuck Castle hoard he never stopped talking about,”_ setting the nugget and deed back into the box, she unfolded the paper quickly.

And found nothing.

_“What?”_

Nothing except for a single lock of -,

“What the duck,” she screamed. “It’s only a stupid lock of someone’s -,” nothing except for a single lock of _oh._ She gasped, staring dumbly at the folded paper's contents. A glitter in her eye twinkled. Not out of hunger. Not out of greed. But of genuine surprise and shock and something else she didn’t like to feel when she was sitting on a figurative gold mountain. She stared at the single lock, understanding washing over her, and her stomach clenched painfully. This too wasn’t out of hunger or greed, but more specifically, that something else was making its presence known.

“Oh,” she threw the paper and its lock back into the box. “Oh,” she slammed it shut, with deed and nugget and lock inside. She snatched the lock and closed it, stuffing it back into its safe place. Inhaling sharply, she roamed around the walls, suddenly feeling closed in, and stumbled backwards, landing on her back.

“Oh, duck,” she groaned, wiping her face. “Oh duck, oh absolutely duck,” she rolled on her side, finding it difficult to catch her break, “Oh duck.”

Goldie broke into a cold sweat.

* * *

Her clothes dried several hours later as the waning moon appeared in a darkened sky, accompanying stars glittering its luminescent tethers. Gritting her teeth, she resisted angry exclamations that emphasized her decision’s stupidity. She was Glittering Goldie O’Gilt, and she didn’t do stupid. She was smart and cunning and her ice cold heart kept her from making choices bound to inconvenience her.

As she secured the pickaxe on her back, she accepted that stupid had overwhelmed her smart and cunning ice cold heart.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she grunted.

Her doubts and reprimands were silenced under the weight of the cavern entrance. This was stupid. This was going to inconvenience her more than she preferred, but knowing this didn’t stop her. One foot in front of the other. She went deeper into the darkness for someone she realized didn’t hate her as much as she wanted him to.


	2. His Cracked Heart

Scrooge believed he was a good predictor of pain. He knew what to expect, what to _anticipate_ when he made the leap decision to plunder beneath below freeze temperature waters. He was stabbed at multiple points at all conceivable bodily angles, making it impossible to move once the collected water particles had solidified. He did not question his ability to think and perceive in his entrapment; a fact that went against the assumed happenstance at the time. While immobility was an unfortunate consequence, the mind remained alert, and the frozen ice did work wonders on the skin. Gratitude was far off in his thoughts when he realized he’d have to spend an unspecified amount of time stuck across the woman responsible for his predicament.

Fury didn’t cover his bloated emotions, and was useless in his situation. His fury’s blistering, burning matter wasn’t strong enough to melt glacial ice. As she glared back at him, he suspected this applied to her too. Trapped glaring and silently blaming the other for their current positions, this angered blame sustained for more than two years before something gave way. He didn’t know if his anger had began to simmer down, allowing him to perceive another side of her personality he had always written off as sentimental fluff (that didn’t exist).

It may have been that her blonde hair was extremely appropriate considering her name, or that her eyes were more of a deep forest green than the bright, vivid emerald cut she claimed them to be. (He knew his gems, including emeralds.) Or he may have blamed the way she managed to successfully swindle him and keep her calm despite his anger, which always seemed to baffle and intimate his enemies.

It may have been her hair or her cunning or her aptitude with money or her soft snores despite her insistence that she did not (for a fact) snore. Or it may have been her unexplainable kindness when she bandaged his wounded hand after a pickaxe mishap. Scrooge didn’t know. He didn’t want to know, not truly, but seeing he had no where else to go (and neither did she), he simply accepted this uncontrolled fluctuation of sentiment. His beak curved into a smile, and his fluttered when hers did the same. At least the feeling, though not verbally communicated, was reciprocated.

Knowing better would have saved him heartbreak. He plundered under freezing waters, and that was painful. He couldn’t put his pain into words as the creek took shape around him. But this? Watching her pull herself free from her glacial remains, knowing she saw hope in his eyes, and running off in the distance was something else entirely. For a moment, he saw hesitation. She was going to come to him, but the sound of the mammoth’s anger convinced her helping him wasn’t an option. It didn’t simply hurt. It wasn’t a minor painful jolt to his chest.

His tears crystallized immediately. This betrayal was of the deepest order, and several hours later he was still reeling from this stunning disappointment. His hand dangled helplessly out of its minimall thawed space, and there was nothing to do about it. Sunlight hadn’t broken completely in his area, and night descended, spending its cool air throughout the caverns. His time frame was longer than he preferred, longer than he estimated, and while this daunting imprisonment annoyed him, her company had soothed his wounded pride. Now, the thought of her made his heart stammer in regret and heartbreak.

A respectable distance away a mammoth’s snores reassured him he’d been awarded, until sunrise reminded the beast it was time for breakfast, an approximate six hour reprieve. Sleep wasn’t needed. His abandonment spent his remaining energy, leaving him to sleep for the rest of the day. When he awoke, his mind was alert and clear, a promising feature to possess when trapped in a dark cave. Night was a treacherous mistress. It was also a kind mistress when the notion struck her. Through the mammoth’s formidable volume rattling the cavern’s walls, Scrooge heard a sound that was unlike the ones he’d heard over the past five years. It was tiny, small, barely measurable by normal hearing ear.

He heard the metal mechanics of a pulley system. He heard the crack and crumble of hard rock under a sturdy boot. _Man made._ Someone was here. Unable to move, Scrooge was at the mercy of this stranger that somehow managed to find the caves of White Agony Plains. Friend? Foe? Scrooge didn’t know, and he wasn’t ready to find out.

* * *

It was the hair he noticed first. _Something about the hair_ , he mused, and their eyes, _what beautiful eyes._ Those thoughts frittered away when he realized the identity of the person spiraling into his thoughts. Goldie was there, creeping slowly into the vicinity, with a pickaxe strapped to her back. The mammoth wasn’t twenty feet away. Although the snores sounded to surround the cavern in every direction, they originated at one source, and that single source was closer than it appeared. Its hearing was surprisingly sensitive; Scrooge reasoned a millennia of solitude had heightened its senses to a terrifying degree.

Goldie moved quickly but carefully. She approached the glacier, stare wary and steely observant. His question read in his eyes, _“Wot are ye’ doin’ here,”_ but she scoffed dismissively, digging her boot into the ice for balance. _“Do you want to get out or not,”_ her glare asked. Annoyed at this turn of events, he rolled his eyes, and this seemed to please her for she buried her pickaxe into the ice right above his freed hand.

 _“Are ye’ serious,”_ he silently screamed. _“Ye could’ve snagged me hand off!”_

 _“It’s the weakest point in the glacier,”_ she gritted her teeth, teasing the pickaxed into the ice. _“Like I asked, ‘Do you want to get out? I can always leave.’”_

Scrooge frowned but said nothing else. Goldie chipped slowly, pushing weakened ice until it feel, but made sure to catch it with her glove covered hand to drop it quietly into the water. He didn’t think this was going to be enough, working piece by piece, but it was only a matter of time. She worked around his arm, the most thawed area of the glacier, and steadily picked to his head. Chunks of heavy ice fell apart. Each time a block broke apart, she carried it gently to the water using her available arm, and returned to work as if the strain wasn’t a chore on her already frustrated nerves.

This was the question he pondered. He wanted to know why she was here. He couldn’t say he was glad to see her. He wasn’t. Not really. A little. Maybe. The debate continued. Denying her reappearance and subsequent rescue baffled and relieved him at the same time was superfluous. His arm and elbow were in the open. Staring at the rest of the glacier, Goldie measured what to do next and nodded. She set her gloved hand flatly on the flat surface and raised the axe above her head. If she was going to do this, and do it right, she needed to be better than careful. Worry crossed Scrooge’s expression.

_“Don’t do it.”_

_“If I stick at it this way, it’s going to be all night.”_

_“Ye’ll knock it straight into my skull!”_

_“No,”_ she moved to strike, “ _I won’t.”_

Scrooge closed his eyes, bracing for impact. The pickaxed landed straight in the middle, stuck in the center, and was just three inches above his head. An inch more he’d be dead. An inch more she’d have involuntary manslaughter (which was simply plain murder - a hanging offense - in those days) next to her name, along with burglary and assault. An inch more was not an inch Goldie had taken. Her precise measurements were an inch less, and her strike landed exactly where she wanted it to. It happened cracks webbed at the center of the glacier, spreading far and deep around until the particle’s frozen shape destabilized. It fell apart, chunks and smaller bits of ice splashed into thick waters, and Scrooge emerged, like a newborn duckling out of its egg. The first breath was the hardest. His lung contracted painfully, and he winced as he fell forward. He didn’t think of the water or prickly ice shards beneath, but he didn’t have to. With her one arm, Goldie kept him upright. Heavy in her arms, she glanced briefly at his barely conscious form before surveying the surrounding area anxiously.

The snores quaked, rattling the slippery, icy floor beneath their feet. Getting a measure of the distance was an unfortunate necessity, and she recognized the beast’s furry trunk standing out among the bunch of rubble and rock. Almost camouflaged to perfection, its trembling snout gave away its position. It twitched at every other snore. Goldie gripped Scrooge under his arms, dragging him off the ice while minding her steps until they reached solid, dry ground. With a gasp, she laid him across the floor, flickering her head back and forth to the snout as she stirred him awake.

“Wake up, you irritable burgher,” one sharp slap to the cheek stunned him. He awoke with a jolt, blinking rapidly, and tried to crawl away, with her having to grab his wrist to calm him.

“Wot? Where -,” incoherent for several seconds, three deep breaths calmed him as he mind processed his recently liberated environment. He took in her appearance and grip on his wrist. “The farmer and the viper if Ae’ve ever seen it,” he growled, snatching his wrist free, “wot do ye’ think yer doin ‘ere?”

Goldie swallowed, steadying her breaths as her eyes glanced worryingly to the side. “You’re a smart man, Scrooge,” she hissed, angrily. “I just cut your prison sentence down a quarter.”

“Ae suppose ye’ did, but at what cost?”

“Surprisingly, none,” she turned on her heel. “Now, lets go. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary.”

Task completed, Goldie ran ahead. Scrooge stammered briefly, taking a chance over his shoulder to see the snout lying still, and he followed her trail, keeping track of her ponytail.

* * *

Time was a dark maze in the complicated tethers of his brain. He ran and didn’t stop running, kept pace and didn’t think about it; his muscles burned faster than he remembered. A quick sprint wasn’t a bother for him, usually, but he had spent half a decade in ice. Jelly muscles was understandable.

What he didn’t understand was this, whatever it was. He thought he understood what to expect from Goldie O’Gilt. As his lungs squeezed tightly in his tightly, as she led the way through a tediously complicated maze of rock and crystal, he realized his understanding had been misleading.

Adrenaline rummaged through their veins like fish in a ravine. Adventure was what they craved, gold their deepest desire, and their mutual interests were almost in perfect alignment. Almost. Goldie loved adventure and gold above all rest, except for herself. It was the reason why she slipped the drug into his black coffee his first night at the Blackjack Saloon. It was the reason why she robbed him, leaving him in the dead of winter - to which he marched right back to town. _“And this is why Ae’m in this mess,”_ he grunted.

 _“It’s also why yer outta this,”_ his unprovoked subconscious threw at him. He grimaced, chewing on his lip, _“If she hadn’t come back, wot would ye’ be up ta’?”_

_“Ae would’nae had been there in the first place if she hadn’t tried ta’ steal the map!”_

_“True...but she came back. Isn’t that worth something?”_

He frowned, _“Ae suppose.”_

Her simulacrum was far more complicated than he originally presumed, or what she wanted him to presume. She made quick turns at sharp corners, and slowed, at last in front of the pulley system. Two hands alone? It’d have to take her at least an hour and a half to make it down by herself. Four hands would, at best, cut that to about forty-five minutes, but there was no way to measure time. Time wasn’t important. They stepped in, each gripping a rope. Scrooge panted, staring at her slightly lowered head, “Why’d ye do it?”

She began to pull, “You’re still on that?” He began to pull, and the pulley’s system started to softly squeak up the way. “This is the point,” she grunted, “where you say ‘thank you.’”

“Ae want ta’ know, O’Gilt.”

“And I told you...thank you.” When that didn’t appease him, “Why does it matter? What’s the play going on here?”

“Ye’ left me in a giant glacier,” he snapped. “Ye’ saw me and left me in there. Ye’ didnae turn back.”

“Then why am I here?”

“That’s what Ae want ta’ know!”

The pulley snagged, stopping halfway through. Glare on glare. Harsh breaths were met with small, flaring nostrils. This was not a want. Want was an insufficient description. Scrooge needed to know. He needed to know why this woman, whom he had grown to know and care for, defied her predicted nature for his benefit. Glaring into her not as emerald as she’d like for them to be stare, he noticed the pickaxe hanging on her back. Quickly connecting the dots, his glare squinted, and he snapped back.

“Ye were in me cabin!”

“What?” She glanced over her shoulder and scoffed, “Oh please, how else was I supposed to get you out?”

“Cut the malarkey, O’Gilt.” It all came together, as painful as it was. Looking away, he glared into the stone wall, “Ye’ could’nae find me deed. That’s what ye’ were lookin’ for in the first place.”

“After the lagoon,” she said.

“Yes,” he closed his eyes, inhaling shakily. “After the lagoon, but one is easier than the other,” softness trembled his voice, and tears battled with his will to slip past, “and now yer back ta’ finish the job….aren’t ye?”

Goldie glared, or she tried to. He didn’t know. He didn’t see. “Scrooge, I -,” she started to say, but her intentions were shaken, stolen from her as a frightening rumble screamed all around them. Their pulley shuddered dangerously, and they held tightly, for dear life.

“What’s happening,” she shouted.

A furious roar down below answered them, and with it, a sharp collision that nearly knocked them off their feet.

Scrooge rammed his shoulder to the side, a painful crack bounded off, not that either of them could hear it, but he felt it. He felt a sharp, numbing pain starve into his very senses.

“Ae think our woolly friend is up and angry,” he started to pull against the strain. “Come on, lass, we need ta’ move.” Impending doom, legitimate medical emergency, or unfathomable heartbreak was no reason for him to lose sight of what was important. Scrooge steeled his nerves and continued to move, relieved to see that Goldie (for what it was worth) was doing the same. Her brow knitted in that _I will not die to day, thank you very much_ determined fold made him feel lightheaded. A terrible sensation to hold onto, he knew. It couldn’t be help, even in the face of certain death.

The time to panic wasn’t now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All men were once at one time, and all women. Scrooge has a hard time coming to terms with Goldie’s change of heart. This comes back from the show and the comics. It’s all very tragic.
> 
> But spring lies at the end of winter, and that’s when the ice thaws.


	3. The Prisoners of White Agony Creek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge makes a discovery.

Dangling for their lives, it felt as if they had lived three lifetimes in less than a half hour. Their mysterious disappearance didn’t deter the mammoth. Understanding their play, climbing to a height where it couldn’t reach, the beast charged the pulley shaft. Again and Again. Perilous rocks rained on them, and unable to shield their heads, they gritted their teeth, praying their injuries were sustainable.

Goldie knew time was made an enemy. Their trusted ropes held them, but the pulley’s mechanisms plummeted under the strain. Accurate momentum pounded against their safety net.

 _“It won’t be long now,”_ she reassured herself. _“As long as we can get at least a few inches up, we’ll live.”_ Believing the impossible was what kept her going. It’s what kept her alive. Scrooge’s neighboring glare, breathless grunts, and his obviously injured shoulder were bonuses. Life was what she worked and strived for; she wasn’t going to let go now.

“It isn’t going to work,” she shouted. “It’s going break!”

“We jes’ have a short way left.”

“A short way isn’t enough!”

“It is!”

It wasn’t. The woolly mammoth, if they were able to see, had a sparkle in its eye at the last charge. Something broke. Something snapped. Goldie felt it.

A metal compartment finally gave in, and a sharp shift on Scrooge’s end told them time had finally run out. Goldie reached over her shoulder. Their endless glares were forgotten, and a quiet understanding had come to pass.

 _“I’m not dying today, Sourdough,”_ he threw himself at her, and she used all her strength, gripping his waist with one arm while her other swung the pickaxed into the rock. Their dependable pulley snagged and plummeted below; a crash clanged in their ears as they dangled helplessly. The mammoth grunted loudly, huffing, and trembling steps reassured its pursuit had ended. A likely explanation is their lingering scents satisfied the mammoth, leading it to an obvious conclusion the trespassers met fell to their deaths beneath splintered rubble.

Far above the mammoth’s retreating hide, Goldie dangled. Gripping the pickaxe handle, she picked through their pulley’s splintered remains. Old faithful. _“I’ll have to find another way back,”_ if she ever returned. But focusing on getting out was priority. With Scrooge’s arms and legs wrapped clumsily around her neck, she used more than enough of her strength to grab the ledge. Scrooge didn’t waste time. He scrambled over her, tugging and pulling until his fingers buried themselves into the familiar trough of beautiful earth.

Almost instantly his grip found her wrist, and soon, she lied on her back beside, breathless. She didn’t know how long she lied near the entrance panting, wondering where she went wrong, and questioning where she went right. Though blood draped the right side of her face where an unusually sharp chip of limestone collided with her temple, she was alive. When breathing didn’t pain her lungs and throat, she got to her feet with minimal strain just to catch him forcing his pickaxe out of the cliff.

“You couldn’t leave it behind, could you?”

He walked passed her silently, refusing to spare her a glance.

She threw her hands up, “Oh, real mature Scrooge. After I saved you free you from a giant glacier and saved you from imminent death, but yeah, blame Goldie.”

He snapped back around like a wounded viper. “Blame Goldie Ae will,” he pointed accusingly at her chest. “Ye returned for a reason,” he hissed. “And Ae know why!

“Please, Scrooge, you know me so well,” she scoffed.

“Ae know ye’ better than ye’ think.” He crossed his arms, “Ye ravaged me cabin for the deed and gold nugget.”

Goldie frown deepened, and her glare hardened.

Scrooge smirked a slow, nasty smirk. “Ye didnae find it,” smugly said.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” she pushed him aside.

“Curse me kilts,” gripping his shoulder in piercing pain, Scrooge crouched. “Ye know it got hurt during yer rescue!”

"You're welcome," she waved, relishing in dawn's ashes. 

* * *

 

Uncomfortable silence accompanied their journey back to White Agony Creek. Scrooge bandaged his shoulder and held his pickaxe. A few feet ahead, Goldie sulked.

She couldn’t figure it out. This didn’t meant it was unsolvable, she knew. Against her ideals and every ounce of common sense running through her veins, she returned for him. She faced a woolly mammoth’s wrath for him, and like she expected, she had nothing to show for it. _“Life reiterates no good deed goes unpunished,”_ was immediately challenged with, _“after breaking his heart to save yourself. You set your expectations too high, O’Gilt.”_ Goldie slapped her forehead in disgust. It was hard to accept she wanted more than she gave.

While her deeds were noble and extraordinary daring, there were underline with thievery and deception. She didn’t have any moral or legal right to his gold nugget, deed, or whatever else she wanted from him. (Which she didn’t, she insisted on.) But hypotheticals never hurt anyone. If she did want something else from Scrooge, something that wasn’t exactly monetary, then she long ago accepted her usual methods weren’t going to cut it. Not with Scrooge McDuck.

Her hypothetical musings led to a discovery she was uncertain about. Her desire wasn’t monetary, though it held a specific sort of value, and with its lack of monetary value, it couldn’t possible be what it she theorized. It simply couldn’t. She looked behind and met his tired, brooding gaze. Her heart skipped a beat. Fair enough.

* * *

 

“I left half a plate for you,” she mumbled weakly, kicking her boots off. “Your other cans soured, along with everything else.”

He didn’t reply, dropping his head on the table. He spooned his cold plate reluctantly.

“Ye’ -,”

“No,” she hunched forward on his hard bed. “It isn’t drugged. It isn’t poisoned.” She removed her boots, setting them to the side, “Make a town run a priority.” Feet out, she stretched her toes and stared tiredly at the window, “You’re going to have to. There’s nothing left here.”

“Ae plan ta’.” He spooned his half eaten plate of beans, “Ye’ have anything in mind?”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, sending him a wry stare he couldn’t decipher (And didn’t want to. Not now.), “I’m still held captive?”

“Ye were never a captive,” he corrected. “But if ye insist, yes, ye’ still ‘ave ta’ work off what ye stole and pay off for the claim.”

She huffed, unsurprised and yet, a little disappointed. “Fine,” she rolled under the sheets, “enjoy your night, grubby miser, and your stupid nugget!” She shifted on the bed five mores times before settling in a semi-comfortable position.

Scrooge continued to eat, sucking in his breath at every other bite. Pain wasn’t going to stop Scrooge McDuck from putting something in his stomach.

“Do you want me to help,” she offered.

“Ae don’t need any help.”

“Sound like you do.”

“Trust me,” he said, flatly. “Ae don’t.”

Goldie lied on her side, pillowed wrestled in her arms, and did her best to ignore his sharp breathes and wheezy winces. “May the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat,” she groaned, pushing her semi-cold blanket off her.

“Wot are ye’ doin?” It was apparent what her intentions were, as she walked up to him, gripping his shoulder in a lightly firm hold. He jerked away, glaring, “Are ye’ tryin’ ta’ kill me!”

“I’m trying,” she stressed patiently, “to see it isn’t serious. You’ll have other reasons to go to town if it is. May I look at your shoulder, only your shoulder? And for additional reassurance, I know you don’t have anything worth stealing.”

Scrooge glared, but the pain throbbed. It didn’t want to be ignored. “Fine,” he said. “Do what ye’ must. Ae’ll be watching.”

“I would expect so,” she gripped. “Do you have any bandages? Alcohol? Anything?”

He jutted his beak to the boiler, “In the corner, not underneath.”

The floorboards were weak, and she found the impromptu first aid kid easily. “Winterbeard’s, smart to keep on you,” she set it on the table and touched his shoulder. “Show me some skin, sourdough.”

Scrooge slowly unbuttoned his shirt, just enough to expose his shoulder skin. Goldie winced. His white feathers were normal, sticking to the skin as they should, but it was the flesh underneath so rarely since that troubled her. His skin had swelled and toughened in the time span. Warm to the touch, she sucked in a sharp breath, choosing to examine thoroughly. “Sorry, Scrooge,” she said. He paused for a moment, confused, and nodded quietly. She pressed her fingers firmly into the hot, purple-blue blotched skin, and earned a winded whine as reward.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” she sighed. “Heavily bruised, but nothing to be alarmed about.”

Scrooge chuckled, “McDuck genetics. We’ve survived much, much worse.”

“I’ll bandage it anyway,” gently pulling his sleeve down, she brought the roll of gauze and slowly twined it around his shoulder. Tightly. Medically. Her firm administrations didn’t alarm him. He’d visited a doctor at least once; the costs were ridiculous. There were other reasons for his tense muscles, frightened rabbit heart, and unusual overloaded sweat glands.

Lying beneath her administrations was a tenderness he’d never known. For the first time since he’d met her her glare was neither cold or calculating or smug or angry. His medical issue drew her attention, and she appeared to take it seriously as did her best to help him. _“Wot is this,”_ intrusive thoughts took control. _“Is she trying to kill me, no, no that doesn’t make sense,”_ sweat dribbled past his forehead, down to the pointed start of his beak.

She was warm and kind, gentle and patient. Experience taught him this Goldie didn’t exist, but there she was, standing in front him, helping him.

“Alright,” she stepped back. “All done.”

He looked at his shoulder. “Wow,” he swallowed. “Thanks.”

Goldie nodded, “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

"Where'd ye learn?"

"Mom," she laughed. "She and Gran were midwives and acting physicians in town."

"Well...um...," he coughed, blushing a little. "They were good teachers."

"They were." She inhaled deeply, smoothing her pants, “I’m...going to bed now. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She returned to bed where her face stared through the closed window. Scrooge waited for the gentle chime of soft snores to tell sleep had laid its claim. He quickly ate what he could and pushed the chair quietly, hobbling to his small compartment where he’d spend the rest of the day. He moved carefully, taking care to avoid touching his shoulder. Sitting in his safe hidey hole, he hurried to make quick work of inventory. Slumber was a patient guest; it wouldn’t be long for his will to crumble.

Five years passed, making memory loss an understandable consequence, but Scrooge clung to his precious memories, similar to the way he clung to treasure and wealth.

He closed the door behind him, locking it. A sad smirk tugged on his beak as he took a seat. _“Ae’m sure she performed a thorough search for ye,”_ he grinned, _“but ye cannae outwit Scrooge McDuck.”_

Her last option forced her return, reserving her original goal for a later opportunity. As much as his body ached, a deeper pain than Scrooge had ever known in his life had bloomed. _“But Ae’m happy ta’ be free,”_ he mused, _“was mighty uncomfortable getting frostbite on me tailfeathers.”_ His freedom wasn’t enough to soothe his disappointment; this pain he held onto chained forgiveness to the very bottom of his soul.

He set the lantern at his feet and lit its inside. A smug, orange glow brightened the dark compartment, and he smiled, lifting the inner floor slab where his lockbox was. It was in identical condition as he left it, and shaking it softly, the weight was the same. Opening the box, he exhaled in relief (unaware he’d been holding his breath in the first place), and saw the glittering shine of his beloved gold nugget.

Scrooge gasped, “Aye, my blooming bounty, there ye’ be jes’ as Ae left ye.” He caressed its ridged surface, and hummed at the familiar touch. He spent hours, no, days and weeks searching for this Earth jewel. Next to it was the rolled deed of his claim that he had gotten authorized at first notice. Setting the box back to the floor, he unrolled the document to reread its contents, an unnecessary action since Scrooge never forgot legal binding documents. His reading was an act of reassurance.

Completing his reading and imprinting the script to memory, Scrooge set his deed aside in the lockbox. His attention turned vaguely to the last parcel of paper present, and he grimaced. He had no reason to gaze at the lock of hair resting inside. She gave him ample reason to ignore it, and possibly, toss it out the window at the earliest chance. He struggled, resisting its charm, and the way her arm felt around his waist as she pushed him over the cliff. _“She could’ve dropped me,”_ gently plucking the covering up, he ran a thumb over its rough surface, _“or left me in the ice...but she didn’t.”_

_“Ye’ know why, don’t ye?”_

_“Of course,”_ he unfolded the paper, and sighed a little sigh at the lock of hair. _“But ye’ must admit, it’s very pretty.”_

_“Yes, yes, it is.”_

Soft and gentle, a pure lock of hair. Her hair. Gold in another way. He didn't deny his fascination's oddity. Most people didn't gaze lovingly at a lock of hair. But its existence mystified him, and it wasn't like she needed it. There was no harm indulging his fantasy with creativity in a real he absolutely zero experience in. (Brenda Duckmmond didn't count.) "Scrooge McDuck, romantic," he chuckled. Yet, surprisingly, this was truth, and as he gently brushed the lock's side, he entertained the idea of being a romantic. With her. Just her.

Possibly, these thoughts and his position opened a door he wouldn't have noticed before. In the corner of the room was a blanket. A thick, cotton blanket he remembering purchasing at the general store. _“Ae left this in under the bed,”_ he recalled, bringing the blanket to his beak. He inhaled deeply, and confusion drew over his expression as he worked to identify the unusual scent to this blanket. Sweet. Sweaty. Dirty He pulled back, dropping the hair inside the box, and pressed the entire blanket into his beak.

 _“Ae know this smell,”_ he sighed. _“But it cannae be.”_

No. He lowered the blanket. _No._  Impossible. It couldn’t be what he thought it was. Scrooge turned to the closed door and swallowed. If what his heart told him was true, then this conclusion (fact!) had now distorted his established perception of her. His original statement of her not finding his gold and deed was incorrect. She had found a golden opportunity to escape with both during his entrapment. Scrooge was wrong. In her palm was the golden goose nugget, and she didn't take it. She fought her nature and selfish morality, and saved him instead.

Disbelief dumbing his astute senses, Scrooge lowered the blanket on top of his lap. Numerous explanations thundered at the corners of his temples. He knew what this meant for him and her. _“She had it all,”_ he debated. _“She could’ve taken it all.”_ Everything was accounted for. His deed. His nugget. His lock of - _oh_ , his cheeks flamed. He shook his head, furiously. This wasn’t some minor, two-bit villain whose name was fated to get lost in his sea of memories at the ripe old age of 150. She was Glittering Goldie O’Gilt, The Star of the North, Ice Queen of Dawson; she didn’t question her morality. No. She simply did what she wanted and stole what she wanted. So how, if this were all true, was he holding his gold nugget and deed with the blanket she had used hours earlier when her searched ended for both.

Scrooge had no proof, outside the blanket, but he knew this was true. She had seen his treasured lock of hair, and...what...didn’t pursue what seemed to be second nature to her.

“No,” he whispered. _Yes,_ his thoughts whispered back.

“No.”

This was too much, and he was exhausted. He returned the box and its contents to its hole, and wrapped himself in the blanket, smelling of her (and what a disgustingly dirty and sweet odor it was). He curled onto the floor, resigned he’d have to sleep his first night as a free man without a pillow. That was fine. He had his gold and his deed and had spare pick axes to use.

“Ae’ll worry about it in the morning,” he smacked softly, rolling the blanket securely around him. He abandoned conscious thought to oblivion, and the world was better for it.

* * *

 

Scrooge awoke in cool warm, unaware of how long he had slept. He rolled on his back, blinking at the ceiling, and breathed an uneasy breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

As his senses cleared from their sleepy blurriness, Scrooge realized he understood three, important things. His blanket was unusually good at holding heat, making him question his reasons for not using it during those long, cold nights in White Agony Creek. He was closer to certain than he had ever been in regards to Goldie’s feelings for him; she cared for him more than he initially believed. The last thing, he sniffed, was he was absolutely certain someone was frying bacon in his cabin.

The sizzling bacon’s scent drew his empty stomach further, and prompted Scrooge to get on his knees, gripping the blanket close around him. He gently kicked his snuffed lantern to the side, pushing the door open half an inch to get a minimal view of what was going on beyond his visible sight. What he didn’t see, he was able to infer from what he heard, and he paid close attention to what he heard.

Above the sizzling, crackling bacon someone hummed. Low, sweet, jovial, he may have described the melody as peaceful, but was only able to think pretty as he emerged into his cabin. Opening the door and closely it softly, he snuck into open air and saw her standing in front of the stove where the bacon crackled. Two plates were on the table; one with cooling fried eggs and two slices of bacon. Scrooge took a hesitant seat, picking up his fork to pick at the eggs, watching the cook yolk burst.

"Do I have to say I didn't poison or drug it,” she asked, placing her bacon slices on her plate.

“Ae know ye’ didnae.” He sliced the egg in half and chewed wearily, “But where’d ye’ get the food?”

He didn’t have to voice his assumptions to give them life. After setting the skillet aside and turning off the stove, Goldie sat across the table and began to eat. She shrugged dismissively, hoping to leave their conversation at that. Scrooge scowled, setting his fork back on the table. Hunger be damned.

“Who’d ye’ steal it from, Goldie?” A fist buried itself on the table, “Some poor miner, some mountie? Ae won’t eat another person’s hard work!”

“I didn’t steal it,” she answered, calmly. “Or I don’t think I did,” the taste of bacon and egg popped vibrantly in her mouth, much better than those beans. “I used those wild critters you seem so fond of.”

“Ye’ didnae!”

“What,” Goldie scoffed. “No! I asked them to find food for us, for you, which they were more than happy to do. I don’t know how you got all princess-y with these animals.”

“Ye’ asked wild animals to rob people?”

“Is it robbing if it’s an animal,” Goldie asked.

“Well -,”

“I didn’t train them. I didn’t direct them. I made a request, and they followed through, you can’t blame me for that,” she smirked, seeing her sensibile statements take effect. “And we haven’t had a proper meal in over five years, though I don’t think this counts,” she mushed her eggs and bacon together.

Scrooge crossed his arms, “Ae won’t eat it.”

Goldie stared blankly, “Fine.” She reached over the table, plucking his eggs and bacon off his plate, “More for me. I’m starving.”

“Hey!”

“No,” she snapped back. “You don’t want to eat my charitable breakfast? Fine. I’ll eat it for the two of us, and then, I’ll thank those critters again, addressing your ungrateful manners.”

Before she could get a grip on the eggs and bacon, that crunched and slid away under her fork, Scrooge snatched her wrist. Goldie glanced at his folded fist around her slim, tiny wrist, and stared back at him, not with shock, not with anger, but an inquisitive glaze that made his heart thump weakly.

“Let it go, O’Gilt. It’s mine.”

“You said you weren’t going to eat it.”

“It’s still mine.”

“It’s a waste of food.”

“It doesn’t mean ye’ can jes steal a man’s food!”  
  
“Watch me.”

What happened next is another reason for dissension in avid McDuck historical circles, but the first thing to know and fully grasp is that it didn’t matter who pulled who first.

Who initiated the kiss? No one knows. Who threw the other on their back? No one knows. Who sat the other on a chair? No one knows.

This is what is relevant. Goldie jerked his whiskers, deepening the touch of their frantically touching beaks. Scrooge pulled her waist to him, delighting in her bodily warmth. She ran fingers under his shirt. He pulled. She tugged. For more than five years this kiss waited as an idle fancy, biding its time until their walls crumbled, and at last, refusal was denied, especially as they rolled over their food onto the floor below. Their fleeting transgression burned brightly under morning stars.

Animals hearing the crash and shouts raised their heads in mild interest at the ongoings of their two-footed neighbors, but even with their limited human experience, they understood what ensued was something they didn’t want to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning now: Rating is going to go up next chapter. The intent was to write what Don Rosa wasn't allowed to illustrate. We're about to hit that point.
> 
> Chapter was shorter, but during an edit, I realized I forgot about Scrooge's shoulder. I mentioned his shoulder and didn't do anything with it. Didn't sound right. Since we know so little about Goldie this turned into theorizing what her pre-Dawson life was like. Hints will be dropped here and there.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and see you next chapter!


	4. The Cabin Where It Happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not listening to Hamilton's "The Room Where It Happens." (Yes, I was.) Please refer to the rating. I wrote what Don Rosa wasn't allowed to illustrate.

For decades controversy surrounding the events in Scrooge McDuck's cabin on White Agony Creek resulted in sundry fractures within Clan McDuck historical groups. Scrooge's amorous affections for Goldie O'Gilt were unanimously accepted, and surprisingly well documented in police reports. The conflict lied in determining whether these affections were consummated in any capacity. Harrowing research has produced implications and assumptions, causing disputes last longer than necessary. 

 _“The truth is more complicated than that,”_ wrote Carl Barks in his 1952 draft of Scrooge’s original biography, _“Scrooge McDuck had taken Goldie O’Gilt (unwillingly) to White Agony Creek to settle a claim dispute.”_ While this was true, the publishers were livid at the idea of Scrooge McDuck, at this point an established businessman and adventurer, being portrayed as a dastardly villain hellbent on kidnapping a woman. Her profession and crimes be damned.

Publishers demanded the Klondike story revision. Ultimately, Barks was forced to remove the original details surrounding Goldie’s capture, offhandedly mentioning she worked to pay back what she stole.

Scrooge, had he taken the time to sit and read through his original biography, would’ve reluctantly admitted the truth of this statement. Had he meant to abduct her? Yes and now. He wanted to set right a grievous wrong, and saw a quick and difficult method of doing so. What else could he have done? It was Dawson, not the happiest place on Earth. In spite of his valid reasoning, abduction it was.

After discovering Barks’ originals and their subsequent publishing, other historians ventured further with indications of a relationship that may have possibly been consummated. Similar to Barks, these historians required subtle language to convey their messages, though in recent times this theory has developed into truth.

So what really happened? What words did they share? What actions did they participate in? It’s impossible to tell, but speculation exists, and voices tend to carry through hard driven snow.

* * *

“Ack,” he hissed. “Me shoulder!”

Somehow, they pushed an upended chair back on its legs without disconnecting. Their beaks didn’t miss a beat.

She unbuttoned his shirt with expert fingers, and he did the same to her blouse. She shimmed her pants off. Fortunately for them, he didn’t wear pants. This made things easier for them. Their pants and half-lidded gazes communicated silently what they intended to act next.

His beak moaned into her exposed breasts. He preened lovingly, picking at dirtied feathers and casually plucking broken ones out. She grinded against him, gasping softly as she cradled his head.

Goldie knew without a doubt she was the experienced one. His eager touches hesitated as they found her rump, squeezing delightfully hard on her tailfeathers. Duck feathers were infamously sensitive. His kisses - though breathless and pleasurable, were sloppier than the last she remembered.

She had done her work for men and women alike, had left them released and wanting, but in all her years since she discovered the pleasures of the flesh had she felt this. It wasn’t an explosion. It wasn’t a weakened dam bursting. She wished she knew what this was, but all coherent thought escaped her. What was understood was she needed to guide him, and with a sharp stare from above, Scrooge understood. It was time to let the lady lead.

A kiss for his forehead, for his cheeks, down his neck where the thickest vein pulsed visibly, and lower, lower, until she was on bended knee.

(Goldie later learned of Brenda Duckmmond and laughed heartily, completely understanding why the young woman hadn't request a second date.)

She gripped his thighs lightly, conveying a patient figure as he tried to compose himself. His erection quivered in front her with a small dribble of small amount of cum at the tip. Satisfaction purred on her lips, and she pressed a chaste kiss on the skin. Scrooge hissed, head rolling back, “Goldie, lass.”

“Patience,” she reprimanded. Concentration. Patience. What she did required both. A single misstep could ruin the entire mood, and the wetness between her legs screamed. Gently guiding his mouth to his cock, she slowly descended, swallowing until she reached two inches from the base.

“Bless me bagpipes,” every muscle tightened and stilled. He found strength in hands, burying them in her hair despite its tangles and dirt. “Goldie, lassie, Ae -,” his intended sentence died the second she began to move.

Virgins weren’t new to Goldie. Nothing to worry about. She knew what men liked, what men wanted, but she wanted something too. And having him at her control as her head bobbed gleefully, she made sure she catch a brief glimpse at the fantastic euphoria quickly overriding his senses. Eyes closed. Back hunched. Airy, stunted breaths trailed over her head. She slurped and sucked, dick passing his uvula without triggering her gag relax.

This was good. This was better than good. Glancing to see his half-lidded stare focused on her, only on her - not gold or money, delighted her more than she knew. As he twitched, as his dick swelled in her mouth sweet tremors passing to and fro, she estimated she had another a minute and a half. Her tongue wrapped around his length, like a corkscrew digging into a bottle of fine wine. A minute trickled into thirty seconds, and through her work, she managed to smirk.

He saw this smirk, and shuddered.

“No.”

“Umf?”

A painful tug on her head surprised her, but once she saw his hand on his dick, directing his projection, she understood and grinned. He poured himself on her. Chuckling breathlessly, the touch of his sticky substance on her feathers kindled her fires. A good bath was in order. But not yet. Not yet.

“I’ll say -,” she didn’t get to finish.

He wasn’t finished.

With one sharp tug she was pushed on top of the table. He pushed his legs aside and brought his fingers to her folds, testing for her wetness. His gentle touch was more than she was capable of enduring. He slipped past swollen lips, gently pressing on top an equally erect clit, and a pathetic whine was his reward. A dark chuckle, he gripped her thighs and dragged her to him.

He wanted her. He desires her (and more). All she wanted in the instant was to have him - all of him inside her. Her desire deepened the longer she fancied the idea, and hoped, like a delirious child, these feelings persisted hours later.

He entered her slowly, carefully. At the last inch he thrusted vigorously into her, and she let out a tiny yelp that was crinkling gold to his ears. _“Scrooge,”_ she whined, burying her fingers into his back, disappointed she didn’t possess nails capable of scratching into his feathery skin like she wanted.

 _“Goldie,”_ he groaned, as he began to move deeper inside. As furious and lovestruck as he was, impatience fled from his mind. His intentions were to extend this as long as they could; their powers of persuasion were impressive. It was inevitable one or the other had to give in at some point. Being first wasn’t an option. She raised her legs up, locking them right above his tail feathers, and she groaned into his ear, closing her eyes beneath the ceiling’s glare. _“More,”_ she pleaded, in raspy breaths. _“Scrooge, please.”_

He obliged her steadfastly. His slow, tender thrusts acquired a sharp roughness in conjunction to maintaining its original pace. He went deeper inside, focusing solely on her ardent expressions and the mind numbing sensations overtaking them. He cupped his hand on the back of her head, ending every grunt with a breathless sigh that left a sob at the end of every moan. Enthusiastic joy met his thrusts at every hit, and another entity swelled in her stomach she wasn’t prepared to identity. Her current condition prevented any cohesive thought.

As they swelled together, as her pulsations strengthened, as their bodies trembled, the point of no return was reached with debilitating clarity as his muscles tightened around her. She gripped onto him for dear life, gasping loudly, weakly murmuring words she wouldn't remember seconds later. She came in a single breath, and pulled an inch off the ground, legs still crossed above his tail feathers. His pursued her at rapid speed; riding the last bits of his orgasm, a harmony of happy, little grunts ending on dreamy sighs sunk into her ears. On his last heaving sigh, he sunk into her. Spent, emptied, and delightfully satisfied. 

Inconsequential thoughts argued what was the best method of landing on the floor. Breakfast's slaughtered remains were scattered in broken plates and dented tin cups. Their morning activities brought upon an unfortunate responsibility of tidying up; this was a parent's vain hope.

Sleepiness tiptoed on their half-lidded eyes, sweetly coaxing them to a unified oblivion neither were ready to fall into. Their valiant attempts crumbled, and they were swept away in its tide. With his head on her breasts, snoring softly, she ran fingers through his tufts of hair, a lopsided grin grazing on her beak.

* * *

Goldie’s sleep broke first; eyes fluttering against bright rays of light. Her mind wandered, grasping at straws until it grasped the shortest straw, clicking her memory on. _Oh._ That explained her sore muscles and a dull, cooling ache between her legs, but what about the weight? _Oh._ Again. That explained him too.

Usually, this was the moment she crept away into the darkness (or light) with their wallet and valuables attached somewhere on her person. Sex was a fine cure for insomnia, after all. Having him on her breasts, sleeping soundly, was oddly comfortable. His weight wasn’t uncomfortable, making rolling him off an easy task, and she didn’t mind the thin trail of drool sliding onto her feathers. Goldie was content.

 _“Cute,”_ catching sight of the faint red blush on his cheeks. _“Cute and an idiot and a miser and kind…,”_ and she closed her eyes, inhaling sharply. She didn’t want to ruin this. Whatever this was. Best for her to leave now, right now, while he slept deader than night (an improvement of the previous night when he discovered his box had been tampered with), and maybe with a little of his gold in her pockets. _“He’d find me,”_ she thought. The idea didn’t feel her with as much annoyance as usual.

So was this love? Goldie laughed quietly. _No._ This wasn’t what the songs wrote about. Love was tender and patient and kind. Love was flowers and sweet talks and gentle murmurings and eating quietly at the breakfast table. It wasn’t thievery and death traps and fucking on breakfast tables after arguing over bacon and eggs. It wasn’t this. Goldie turned her head to the side, frowning, the sensations pitter pattering in her mind and chest were similar to what she thought love may feel like.

 _“Deep breaths,”_ she soothed her intrusive thoughts. _“You’ve got a handle on this. You’ve got this.”_

What Goldie meant was this situation requires drastic measures, and for the first time in ten years, Goldie was apprehensive. She wanted, quite simply, to remain lying beneath him where their hearts beat as one. She wanted to inhale his musky feathers and fall into the warmth of his touch. His faintly blushed cheeks, residue from their earlier activities, compelled her cheeks to do the same, and she knew they were for reasons outside their consummation. Closing her eyes, she knew it needed to be done, and with more regret than she expected, she extracted her fingers from his soft, curly hair. Underneath her fingertips, her skin screamed prickly jabs at the sudden, unexplainable loss. This too she ignored. She had no choice.

Gripping his shoulder firmly, she nudged him softly. His snores deepened, making his shoulders shake slightly above her. She dropped her raised head on the floor, more exhausted than she knew and for reasons she didn’t understand. Before she moved, she made sure to touch his back and grace his prominent muscles, rarely seen beneath his clothes. Stripes of blemishes feathers tickled her and were aligned in awkward, diagonal patterns she was responsible for; small drops of blood bubbled to the top, staining them. She knew he’d endured worse, and this may be some of the better scars he’s acquired over the years.

She slid her hands underneath him, directly underneath his chest, and she pushed him roughly, using half of her strength to slide away. He landed on the floorboards with a soundless thud, and she scampered away, hissing as her muscles and back groaned in protest. The floor was a poor choice for a nap, but her work was done. Scrooge’s deep sleep cracked and fell apart; his eyes fluttered opened. He inhaled a familiar deep breath, the breath associated with awakening after a good sleep, and his hands flattened, pushing his body up as he searched around, obviously half-anticipating her disappearance.

Seeing her there, partially undressed (still in the process of buttoning her blouse), his eyes widened, and he glanced down at himself. Naked. Very naked. He saw broken plates and splattered food. He saw an unidentified stain on his table. He met her eyes, cheeks redder than they were during the act, and reached for his discarded shirt.

“Hey,” she greeted.

“Hey,” he replied.

* * *

They dressed in silence. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. She found her pants and shimmied into them, found her boots and laced them to the top. He picked up the remains of their breakfast, nibbling on cold bacon here and there. She snatched the eggs, gobbling them with zero thought, and the last strip of bacon. She made the upturned chairs upright, she dusted the crumbs into what qualified as a waste bin. He handed her a sock she missed, and what he thought was a simple night shirt that wasn’t.

“It’s something they call a bra,” she explained, taking the dangling item off his finger. “Supposed to replace the corset or something,” she examined the ruined thing. Wet and dirty, dark had stained its original white coloring. “I wonder what they’ve made of it now.”

Scrooge swept, keeping his head low. “Ae hope it isn’t as complicated ta’ take off as that one is,” he grumbled, and sharply snapped his beak shut, his candor surprising him. Goldie watched embarrassment fill his eyes, and she chuckled, shaking her head. Innocence kept him grounded in ways she didn’t think possible; so fascinating it was to see a weathered man demonstrated such innocence.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about it,” she said. “It’s a terrible trifle to wear, but attracts paying customers.”

“Ye’ mean the Blackjack Saloon?”

“Where else?”

Scrooge frowned. “Well…,” disjointed thoughts, half-formed ideas bubbled on his tongue. He paused, sucking through his teeth, and tried again, “Ae think yer too good fer it. Ae’ll admit get going when the going’s gettin’ good, but...why stop there?”

For once, Goldie was offended.

“What an astute observation,” she answered, throwing the last glass remains into the waste bin. “I’ve thought about it, a few times, what it’d be like to travel...and I mean truly travel, seeing worlds, discovering treasure,” resting her hand on the table, a far away sparkle twinkled in her pupils. Scrooge imagined her dreams of dangerous lands and wondrous treasures, far beyond an average person’s creativity.

“Ye’ can always use a longtime partner,” he offered gently, and suddenly froze. Again hopeful sentimentality had taken him prisoner.  Her daydreamer’s wonder glowed vibrantly around her eyes. He wanted to catch her hopes and promises like stars in a bristling night sky. He didn’t want her to lose that, he realized, and his hardened resolve crumbled.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he flushed, looking away. “Ae said nothing at all.”

He hoped she hadn’t heard.

Goldie smirked, “If I were to travel, I doubt I’d need a partner, and if I did travel I couldn’t travel far.”

“Why?” Scrooge smirked, “Ae thought ye’ were Glittering Goldie O’Gilt?”

“And don’t you forget it,” she snapped, taking a seat in the upright chair. “Glittering Goldie O’Gilt gets what she wants when she wants, and no miner is going to change that.

Scrooge paused mid-sweep and stared. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “Ae know.”

He’d later attest this was the reason for his later decision. What he didn’t anticipate was an unwelcome laceration on his heart when the decision was acted upon.

He’d underestimated the power of a romantic heartbreak, and didn’t believe at the time he was in the process of one. (He certainly didn’t think at the time he was partially to blame.) Of his years traveling the globe, gaining and losing fortune, he never believed he’d find a kindred spirit in adventure and wealth. His match was idle fantasy, a stimulating but unrealistic goal that motivated him when adventure and treasure wasn’t enough, which happened sparingly.

He needed to get a handle on things. He needed to regroup and contemplate and plan accordingly; staring at her, having her here, with him in the cool comfort of his cabin was a distraction. She was a distraction. _No._ She was more than a distraction. Scrooge set the broom aside, finally satisfied. _She was an obstacle._ As a McDuck, he was destined to overcome every obstacle. He sat at the table, not exactly across but more adjacent, and he stared her in the eyes, trying his best to not get lost in her natural dark green waves. He mustered the strength and courage to speak.

What he said, he’d later learn, broke their hearts.

* * *

“You want me to leave?”

“Ae do.”

“Scrooge...you say you….want me leave,” she repeated.

She was at the door, fully dressed, staring back at him with confused, burdened eyes. (He didn’t realize this either at the time. Account it to youthful obliviousness.)

He walked behind her, feathers a darker red than they’d ever been. “I...uh...think it’s best,” he stumbled over his explanations. “I’m afraid of what might happen if you stay any longer. I mean with bears and the woolly mammoth -,”

“That I successfully avoided and saved us from?”

“And wolves and claim jumpers,” he wiped his forehead. “I think it’s for the best.”

“So after everything,” she whispered, “everything that’s happened and we’ve accomplished, none of that means anything to you?”

Scrooge paused, and it clicked. “Oh! Ye’ mean yer pay!” He dug into his coat, producing a small, dingy wallet, “A month’s pay for a month’s work. Yer claim dispute is settled as far as Ae’m concerned.”

“Pay,” she said, incredulous.

Goldie O’Gilt was a proud woman. It didn’t matter her heart was breaking; she stood proudly and laid her palm flatly in the air, ready to receive her worker’s pay with dignity. He pulled several silver coins out of his dingy wallet, dropped them into her open palm all with a harsh scowl on his beak, directed at her, she presumed.

“Fifty cents a day is all ye’ earned and all ye’ll get!”

“Fifty cents,” she growled at him. With the speed of a mountain lion, she curled the coins back at him, showering him with her worker’s pay.

“Oh!?” She shouted, “Here’s what I think about your cornball work ethics!” Watching him fall backwards in shock and confusion was mildly satisfying, but she didn’t think about that as she marched-strut down the hill, fists swaying angrily at her sides. “I dug more gold than you, you tightwad!”

Watching her go downhill, disappearing on the path that led her here, he embraced those fleeting moments they shared as he sighed dreamily.

 _“Wow! Wotta a gal,”_ he sighed dreamily. His dreamy smile sobered, and sadness gripped his chest as he recovered from her snappish attack, steadying his gaze on her retreating back, _“But colder than the ice on a mooseneck glacier.”_

When he heard an uncomfortable sniffle carry on the winds, he blamed distantly screeching hawks as they searched for their afternoon meals.

(Years later in 1947 during a particularly cold Christmas, the truth struck him with an acute sense of nausea where he fell back in his recliner, disgraced.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact corner!
> 
> Carl Barks "Back to the Klondike" and Don Rosa's "The Prisoner of White Agony Creek." 
> 
> The Prisoner of White Agony Creek is Don Rosa's last story before his retirement. Bittersweet. Hardest thing was the lack of Judge Roy Bean. I liked that dude. He was a source of comedy gold, pun intended. He knew what was going on in there wasn't a hanging offense.
> 
> Brenda is an actual character that appeared in Denmark's "The Orphan Christmas." In "DuckTales: Solving Mysteries and Rewriting History!" Scrooge mentioned a young woman he'd briefly courted. I don't want to overstuff the story with too many Easter Eggs and filler characters. Don Rosa did a lot of research for his Uncle Scrooge/Donald Duck stories, especially Life and Times; obviously, DuckTales 87 and 2017 are extremely different in that playing field.
> 
> It may or may not include Dickie. I'm not 100% on her. The point is blending fact and fantasy is very difficult, and a million thanks to Don Rosa for it.
> 
> Scrooge and Goldie's position at the end is actually inspired by some old fanart, very old from a now I think defunct deviantart account. A few years back another duck fan reinterpreted the art for their vision. I cannot find it now, but if you can, go to it. 
> 
> To those who have stuck with me so far, thank you as always! We're heading back to Dawson.


	5. Goldie and Sal

Approximately seven hours from town, Goldie found a face shaped boulder and sat down, burying her face in her hands. Fat, sloppy tears trailed past her cheeks, adding to the stains clinging on her pants and blouse; she wept harshly, burning her white scelras an irritated red. Her sobs' volume attracted various animals. Caribou, geese, bison, and rabbit glanced curiously at the woman weeping dejectedly on the boulder, chewing their food and others burrowing underground to escape predators, but none braved to investigate closely. She heaved and choked and rapidly sniffed, and they scattered when she kicked dirt, releasing a powerful howl that shamed the nearby wolf pack.

 _This is worse than last time,_ she shook her head weakly, reprimanding sentimentality for pushing the memory forward. She pushed back, forcing it to flee to the furthest reaches of her subconscious, but this was another painful reminder. Heartbreak was a powerful tool, which was why it resided in her home for its useful inconveniences. Love, platonic or romantic or familial, could be weaponized. Y _ou're Goldie O'Gilt,_ pressing her fists into her eyes, she dried her tears and forced her knees to straighten.  _You'll survive this like you've survived last time._ Accepting this heartbreak's power put her at an advantage, and she went one step further with accepting this was different from the previous one, which was different from the first and sharpest. 

She grasped that denial simply worked against her favor; deepening her heartache and yearning. His unintentional scorning hadn't lessened her affection and had resulted in an almost indestructible determination to get him back. As she strolled along, she imagined a comforting arm around her shoulder, and this wasn't mere fantasy. He'd done this once, only that one time during their initial search. She'd gone too quickly and tripped in a pothole. Her plummet was quick, and she braced for impact when she realized she hadn't hit the ground. He grabbed her shoulders, kept her near, and for ten seconds their eyes met confusedly, unable to grasp the enormity of what transpired. 

An impalpable touch electrified their skin, quickening their hearts and brushing their cheeks crimson. Startled, they broke apart sharply, staring at each other warily. Denial did them little good.

Counting her breaths, doing her absolute best to push troublesome memories to the back of her mind, another encroached her conscious territories. Five days before their descent into the caves, she caught an unusual shiver for someone accustomed to the weather's periodical cold fronts.

Scrooge didn’t hesitate - he didn’t _think_ , he later defended, when he retrieved a spare blanket to cover her shoulders with. She didn’t ask. She knew she didn’t. She may have trembled or rubbed her arms to stimulate warmth, but asking wasn't something she was going to do. She ignored begrudging questions about how and why and focused on her work, hungry to find more gold than him.

Alone in the woods the reason seemed obvious. 

At last her tears ceased, and her breathing eased. The wary animals departed having grown bored with the strange, sniveling intruder. Aware she was alone and without equipment and the sun could start its descent at any time, Goldie pushed onward back to town, meticulous planning and confident phrases calming her troubled thoughts.

 _He’ll have to come back anyway, for supplies and food. No one was able to find White Agony Creek for five years._ Her boots crunched fallen twigs. _He won’t come to me...not willingly, not knowingly. I’ll have to figger a way - a reason to get him to come back._ Yes, this made perfect sense. Scrooge was too stubborn, too withdrawn to admit true affection, or affection for her specifically. All he needed was a gentle nudge in the right direction.

_And that's how it'll be!_

* * *

Goldie expected her return to hit the newspapers the second she set foot into two. After all, she was proprietor of the BlackJack Saloon, the hottest, rocking joint in all of Dawson. She held a certain prestige above the majority population; though this didn’t mean anyone was going to actively search for her when Scrooge abducted her. As she neared the town’s borders, numerous changes were noticed she didn’t think would occur in such a short period of time. (To Goldie, five years was nothing, but to the rest of the world, five years were equivalent to fifty.)

The immediate change was the silence. Silence was a myth to Dawson; it never crept in the early hours of the morning, and it certainly didn’t settle in night’s dark depths. Dawson was alive. Spontaneous. Dangerous. You knew what to expect, but you didn’t know in which way it was going to come at you. Sure, this buckaroo was going to steal your hard earned gold to the left, and he was moving for the goal. What could easily happen was the buckaroo behind him already clutched a glass bottle in hand, moving to swing it on his exposed head. Get it? Life was unpredictable; your friend to your right was your robber to your left. There was no telling.

And Dawson never slept, ever.

An uncomfortable, startling silence greeted Goldie as she entered the town’s limits; taking refuge in the town she had called home for more than a year, she suddenly felt misplaced. There were no shootouts, no vulgar language, and where she expected a well dressed woman mugging a poor, defenseless man, she merely saw children - children running barefoot carrying high spirited laughter on their tongues. Goldie stared back at him, confusion drawing a clear picture on her face. As men and women went about their business, to the doctor, to the general store, she heard their whispers - shocked and baffled.

_“Is that?”_

_“Why, I think it is.”_

_“But how?”_

_“I thought he fed her to a bear.”_

_“Pretty sure she would’ve eaten the bear.”_

_"Isn't that what happened to Soapy Slick?"_

_"Nah, he ran off with his other business, didn't he?"_

_"No one knows."_

Their stares hungered for answers, but the second she whipped her glare to them, curls snapping into her cheeks, they silenced. She marched the rest of the way, doing her best to keep her nerves as hard as steel. She was hungry too. In the distance she saw her saloon, it appeared the same with the same sign and front; there were even thirsty horses at the water trough out front. Goldie forced her expression to remain unreadable; as familiar as her saloon was she anticipated it too had undergone changes in management.

She went up the steps and pushed through the swinging doors. A dark, scrutinizing glare covered the top and bottom floor, and with her hands on her hips, she wailed harshly.

“Glittering Goldie’s back, and she’s got some questions too! Snake-hips, where are you?”

* * *

 _What to do?_ Scrooge rummaged through his supplies. _What to do?_ He’d have to go back to town, that was apparent. His food had dwindled to that subpar plate of beans, and he doubted the animals were willing to take another trip on the hunt for human food. He didn’t plan to make another request of them. They’d done more than their share, and he was grateful for it. Sitting on his bed, he did his best to ignore the new scent mingling in the sheets; a little floral, very much dirty, this odor reminded him of the ever enticing aroma of freshly dug gold. Shaking his head, he stormed off the bed, fist clenched at his sides.  

Anger filled him, or was it frustration? Scrooge didn’t know anymore, and this was an unusual occurrence. He and his emotions and feelings usually came to untroubled agreements. He knew himself extremely well, better than well; he knew himself best. But standing where he was, in her absence, he wasn’t sure anymore. He had made the right decision. She paid off her dues. Had helped him into the caverns. Tried to steal the map from him. Got trapped in ice across from him. When nature did her bidding and released her, she left him for dead in the ice.

 _“And she returned to save you,”_ a sensible voice reminded him. _“Because she realized your feelings for her are genuine.”_

“Ae know,” gripping his whiskers in frustration, he paced in front the bed. “Ae know she saved me. Ae know she came back, and Ae know,” his cheeks flushed read. “Ae donnae wot ta’ do now.”

His voice’s unusual smallness terrified him. He was Scrooge McDuck. Doubt and uncertainty were his enemies, and he couldn’t remember a time where both plagued him to unnatural extremities. But as the stinging pain on the sides of his head receded, as his clenched fists relaxed, he realized he couldn’t  do anything outside of what he had already done. With a sigh, he covered his mouth as he walked to the counter, staring at his empty cabinets and pantry.

“Ae may not know what ta’ do in the world of romance,” Scrooge huffed. “But Ae do know Ae’ll starve if Ae don’t get anything to eat.”

His stomach agreed.

* * *

Goldie's stomach also suffered from malnutrition, but it starved for information.

“You were missing for five years,” Sally “Snake-Hips” Sheltie explained the morning later, setting a fresh cup of coffee and a small plate of breakfast at her side. “No one knew where’d ya’ gone to, or where he’d taken ya.”

Goldie’s appetite rattled fiercely during her journey back into town, but as she sat in front of her old friend, used tentatively and with marvelous restraint, she discovered her appetite was buried under a ton of restless energy. She wanted to know. She needed to know what had become of her saloon. Sally ushered her into one of the upstairs rooms, locking the door behind her.

“I don’t understand,” she chewed on semi-stale bread. “What happened here? Five years ago, the  BlackJack Saloon was alive noon to midnight. It ain’t even half past twelve yet!”

Curvaceous and confident, Sally leaned against the closed door, hands resting on her overly talented hips. She reminded Goldie of a candle holder with her shape and flaming dark gaze. She shook her head and sniffed, “A lot’s changed boss, so much has happened since you’ve been gone.”

Goldie's elbow landed on the table, rattling her plate and fork. “Start at the beginning,” she snapped, “and don’t hold back, Sally. I can take it.”

Sally's lips puckered in worriedly. Goldie was more than an adult; she was a scrapper. She'd take anything and everything, kicking and screaming. With a sigh, Sally dragged a seat to the table and started from the beginning.

“Can’t say much changed when you went missing,” she admitted. “No one was rightly worried about you,” she took a seat, stirring her drink with her pinky finger.

“Thanks for the concern.”

“You’re welcome.” She sipped, “But honestly, there wasn't any reason for us to worry about you. It wasn’t like McDuck was known to hurt women, even when they deserved it. He was the strongest, cleverest sourdough out there, but unlike the rest of ‘em, he had moral character. We knew you were safe, and if you were,” she shrugged in a way that suggested what they knew was sufficient, “you’re Goldie O’Gilt. You’ve gotten into worse trouble.”

“An accurate statement,” she admitted.

“So where’d he take ya’?”

“Where you think?”

Sally’s eyes widened, and she swirled in her chair, sitting up right with alarming speed. “Don’t tell me he took you back to his claim,” she lowered her voice to its lowest volume. “No one’s been able to find it, not after all these years. Hunting parties were more interested in that than in finding you alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, toots,” Goldie leaned back in her chair, disappointed. “Ain’t nothing up there either. All the gold he found...long gone, and the nugget,” she grunted. “Ain’t nothing to spare.”

If Sally believed her lie, which was possible and unlikely at the same time, she didn’t show. “That’s a disappointment,” she mused aloud, carefully, with the thinnest trace of skepticism. “Because if he had that gold nugget around you would’ve found it, wouldn’t ya?”

Goldie bit into her sausage. “You know it. Wherever he hid it,” she smacked loudly, very unladylike indeed, “was deeper than the tundra’s snow. Can’t believe a miserly sourdough like himself could evade me.”

“Or your charm?”

With a cold scowl, Goldie dismissed her teasing, “Get on with the rest of the story.”

Sally tsked but did as she was told. “Well, the truth is...gold was drying up in these parts, and people have lives to live and mouths to feed. The White Pass and Yukon Route was finished in 1900, but by then most folks already left for Red Agony Plains down south.”

Goldie blinked, “Red Agony Plains?”

“Yep,” she said. “Way down south, I think in Australia or something. Some folks claim there are opal mines lying underground, but no one’s found any yet. If you ask me,” she downed the rest of her drink, smacking at the finish, “it’s a whole bunch of horeshit.”

“Huh, so what about the town?”

“Oh,” remembering her explanation. “Gold dried up, people moved to find money elsewhere. You know how it goes. The railway is nice and all. Would’ve helped had they got it started sooner. The good thing is Sam Steele is coming back for a behavioral review with the food train this week.”

She let these words flow through, settling in her brain, and she sucked in deeply. Her chest expanded painfully, and fighting against an undeniable urge to scream at the heavens, “What about the saloon? How bad is it?”

Sally “Snake Hips” Sheltie was one of the few people Goldie trusted in the entire world. She didn’t care, not really, of what people thought of her, and though she was a thief, one of the very bests (second to Goldie herself), her morals weren't as loose as her name suggested. A minor inconvenience at the best of times, she'd proven her worth at the worst of times. (A lopsided golden goose. Incorporating a person's innate goodness in a heist provided golden opportunities; lowered guards, sympathetic smiles, and the thief in question didn't necessarily know. That wasn't required.)

Sally stared at Goldie. Her dark gaze harder than onyx, and she gestured simply. “It ain’t good, O’Gilt. Without the miners, without the families, without people - the BlackJack Saloon is goin' to dry up sooner than later.”

The pill was harder than Goldie liked to admit. A punch to the stomach, a slap to the face, or more precisely, which reflected Goldie’s innermost feelings, taking a dive in below zero freezing temperature waters; this was what it felt like to her. Her expression drew an empty blank. The BlackJack Saloon...her baby...her hard work, no matter what he may have thought, was real and had been real; due to her folly, she was going to watch it tumble and fail, a forgotten memory abandoned to frost and cold.

As lost as she was to her disappointment, she passed a rueful glance on the room. _The ladies dress room..._ the walls were bare...the chairs picked and chewed on. Jewel boxes were emptied. Beds were naked without their comforters and sheets; moths flapped beating wings in an open closet. On the side of the wall behind Sally’s back was a suitcase, stuffed to the point of potentially bursting. Goldie frowned.

“You’re leaving.”

“I am.”

“I don’t blame you,” Goldie huffed. “It’s a sensible decision, a smart one.”

“I wanted to see you before I left.” She chuckled, “I knew you’d come back. You always do.”

Despite anger and disappointment, both driving nails through her skull, Goldie laughed. A weak laugh creaked through as she wiped her eye. “I’m Goldie O’Gilt. I leave when the going gets tough, but thanks, you held out longer than I thought you would.”

Sally stood and walked to the door, bending to grab her suitcase. Opening the door, she lingered at the door frame, resting a ruby crested holding finger on the edge. Untold stories flashed on her face, and instead of confiding them, instead of speaking her truth, she turned back and smiled. “Whatever you found up there on White Agony Creek, Goldie,” she said softly, “you shouldn’t let it go, you know? You can be happy...without thievery and potential murder.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” she said quickly. “He lived.”

“With a limp.”

“Still alive,” she grinned. “Wait, when does this train come through?”

“I reckon not for another day or so. There’s gonna be a wait once the foods been distributed, and we all know Steel has the final say.”

It was like she had taken a candle underneath a glass cover and set it to flame. Brilliant. Delightful. A nasty, smug smirk took shape on her beak, curling the very ends where her mouth ended. Goldie raised her head, and even Sally flinched at the unnatural glow present in her gaze.

“We can afford to waste some time, eh, Sally?”

Amused skepticism thawed Snake-Hips' confusion, and Goldie smirked, knowing compliance when she saw it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact corner!
> 
> Snake-Hips appears in "Hearts of the Yukon." She teases Goldie about Scrooge.
> 
> We're entering unfamiliar territory. Scrooge and Goldie are kept apart through the duration of HotY. It's the whole point of the story. They don't end up together, but things are moving differently in my story. They're on different trains heading to the same destination. It'll be difficult, but worth it. I hope.


	6. London Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but rest assured, there's more to come. I'm actually really proud of this chapter title too.

Daybreak was a terrible, terrible time to arrive. He felt every inquisitive, terrified stare targeting his pack as he walked through town. Head lowered, glare dark, teeth bared like a mad dog defending saliva wrapped bone, he gripped his straps until his palms burned bright. The dare was in the air. _"Come at me if ye' want,"_ it snarled. No one moved. They ran into their shops, kept their children close to their skirts, and tumbled over each other to evade him. Scrooge didn't mind. He didn't twitch at their whispered questions, each more exaggerated than the last.

"I thought he was dead," a woman gasped.

"I thought she skilled him," a man choked. 

He marched down the dirt road, keeping his vision straight. It did him no good to confirm or deny their accusations.

"I thought he killed her," spat another.

"Are you sure they didn't kill each other," a fourth man sipped his morning coffee. "We could be seein' their ghosts."

“Ralph, shut up.”

Scrooge paid no attention to them. He'd stop at the General Store to stock up on supplies. Mr. Winterbeard was in good health last time he saw him; plump and smiley and making a killing when food supplies finally came in. Down the list was a visit to the notary office. What happened in White Agony Plains helped Scrooge realize something. The time had come for him to close his claim and start anew. Closing the claim didn't mean revoking his rights to it. He'd sign the paperwork and return later for the remaining gold. He didn’t need the world to know how much he was worth. Not yet, anyway.

His feet were too exhausted to ache, and the walk to the store was brief. His grime and blood infested foot coverings slapped on the rickety floor, and he stared straight ahead, a bright grin pushing onto his beak. At the end of the line was Mr. Winterbeard. As old and plump as ever, stocking the back shelf of his meager store. Scrooge hurried and stood in line, waiting behind a woman dressed in less than fine but better than his clothes. 

"I'd like some of this and some of that," she requested, pointing to a glass vial on the shelf behind the register. "Just enough to get us through, you know?"

"Why Miss," Mr. Winterbeard chuckled. "I can't say I'm surprised. Always tough being a lady these days, told my wife the same thing some years back." He reached to the top of the shelf, plucking the vial off, and charged it to the woman's account, "Be safe using this, ma'am. We don't need anyone gettin' sick."

The woman blushed. "Why yes," she pulled her shawl tightly. "Thank you, sir. I'll be off now."

She went on her way, sparing a belated stare in Scrooge's direction.

"Are you -," she asked.

"Are ye' finished already," Scrooge replied. "Ae've got business ta' attend to."

Scrooge's accent drew Mr. Winterbeard's attention. The old man guffawed, fixing his glasses, "Bless me heart, is that Scrooge McDuck?"

“Why, yes sir,” Scrooge chuckled, going to the preserves that weren't far from the register.

“And you’re not dead?”

“Nope!” He smirked at him, choosing peaches over pickles, “Alive and well, spent half a decade in ice, and faced the wrath of a woolly beast. That’s all.”

Mr. Winterbeard chuckled, “I didn’t ask all that.” He moved around the cashier, putting away some of the ropes and pickaxes, “But I reckon you’ve got a story to tell about Glittering Goldie.”

Scrooge sputtered, back hunched forward with a loud snap. “Ae...there’s nothing ta’ say,” he grumbled, heat rising to his cheeks. “We got into a few mishaps. AE paid her for her work, and Ae suppose she’s back in town...or something.”

“I heard she came in the other day."

“She’s okay?” Scrooge spun, exclamation with panicked concern, “Ae didnae know if she knew the way back without me, and Ae was wor-,” stopping mid-sentence at Mr. Winterbeard’s mischievous smirk. “Ae mean Ae wasn’t sure if she knew how ta’ get back. Glad ta’ know she didnae get eaten by a bear or something.” He dropped his meager supplies, just enough to get him to his next destination, on the counter.

“Of course, I didn’t think you had any romantic inclination,” he said idly, totaling up the cost. “You two are like cats in water, or sprayed with water.”

“Right!”

“And cats in water are vicious and mean." He calculated the amount, "It'll be a $1.50."

"Yer tryin' ta' rob me blind," Scrooge's head throbbed. "But yes, vicious and meanest in the world," digging into his wallet, he threw pickled dollars and coins on the counter. "Folks like us can never get along."

“I didn’t say that,” he handed the items to Scrooge. “Every cat dries eventually, like when the frost thaws.”

“Ae see sense in that,” he took his things. “But I won’t have time to test it, since I’m leaving soon.”

“Leaving Dawson,” hissed a voice behind them.

Scrooge looked over his shoulder, and they saw the young man, the one inspecting the items, staring wide eyed at them - at Scrooge.

“Ae am?” Scrooge frowned, “Wot’s it ta’ ya, laddie?”

The young man jumped, pen bouncing in the curve of his ear. “Well, you see,” he stuck out his name, “I came with General Major Sam Steele for a Dawson City behavioral review for journalistic purposes. I’ve been researching all sorts of things about the Klondike Gold Rush, seeing that it’s drawing to its close.”

“Ta it’s close?” Scrooge turned to Mr. Winterbeard for affirmation. The old man's white head nodded sadly. Scrooge heard a thud in his chest, "Holy hollyhock, the time's come." He took his fur cap off and twisted it, "Good thing Ae'm makin' me way out."

“A smart, pragmatic decision sir,” the man raised his notepad over his mouth, resting his snout the metal rings and hiding his gleeful smirk. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you are Scrooge McDuck, aren't you?”

"Wot it's ta' ye?"

“So, you’re Buck McDuck, aren’t you?” The young man grinned, “From Angus McDuck’s dime stories?”

“Uh...yes…,” he shook his head. _“Curse me kilts, Uncle Pothole,”_ Scrooge griped to the side. Shaking his head and pushing away annoyed thoughts of his uncle away, he took the man’s hand in good faith, “Wot do ye’ want me, laddie?”

“I’ve heard about your reputation in Dawson. One of the most moral but hardest, meanest, wealthiest miners in the land, and I just gotta get this down for the publishers to read!”

Scrooge puckered thoughtfully. It certainly didn’t hurt to get his perspective down, and he knew none of the good citizens of Dawson had portrayed him kindly. (That was the consequence of moral character in a less than moral community.) And who knew? In five decades or so some person may want to know of the grand adventures of Scrooge McDuck. He smiled, chuckling a little, and let the young man lead him out of the store.

“General Steele and I are at the local hotel, separate rooms. If you like, you can stay in my room, for free of course.”

“Ae’ll say it’s a good deal if Ae’ve ever heard one,” he carried his pack easily. An unasked question bothered him, “Ye’ know my name, but Ae know nothin’ aboot ye.”

The young man laughed, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly gesture. “Oh, I’m nobody, not like you or Steel, but I will be,” he grinned a boyishly charming grin, the type of grin Scrooge supposed dreamers still wore when they believed the world fair and kind. “The name’s John Griffith London.”

Scrooge whistled, “That’s a mouthful.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “but my friends call me Jack.”

“Jack London?”

"Yep!" He extended his hand, "Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. McDuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack London reported during The Klondike Gold Rush. He appears at General Steele's side in "The Hearts of the Yukon." He didn't interact with Scrooge in the original comic, but for this story, it'd be funnier for Scrooge to interact with this up and coming legend. I've cut a lot of the chapters up in halves. In certain occasions, some will be longer for narrative purposes. Example: Chapter 4 is longer for an obvious reason. We'll get to that towards the end of the story.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks to everyone who has stayed with me on this journey, and even newcomers with fresh interest! (See you next time!)


	7. Letters From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is taken from Don Rosa's "Letters From Home." It's one of my personal favorites of his and seems to fit.

_“That young feller asked 'im if he was McDuck, and he said yes. They left my store, and that was the last I saw of ‘im before the fire.”_ Of the countless testimonies recalling the disaster referred to as the Great Dawson City Fire of 1902, only Theodore Winterbeard’s account contains the legendary meeting of Scrooge McDuck and Jack London. This curt description has provided irreplaceable context for historians in later what became career making moments for these two, great men. 

Combing through Scrooge McDuck biographers and their disparate interpretations of his past is no easy task. While Barks’ original biography remains staunchly accurate and the foremost biography (up until Scrooge's autobiography published in 2018), history and Scrooge have proven deeper truths lie beneath superficial surfaces. Only one biographer ventured beyond Barks’ scope, picking at what made Scrooge tougher than the toughies and smarter than the smarties and sharper than sharpies.

“Understanding Scrooge’s Klondike triumph is grasping the magnitude this adventure has had on his life from then on,” Don Rosa claimed in a 1993 interview, “the same can be said for Jack London. I’ve done my absolute best to get at the truth, but what we can say for fact is whatever happened there made them the men they are today. And Goldie O’Gilt played a part in it.”

* * *

The future of the two men she spotted at Winterbeard’s was far from Sally’s mind. Her opinion crossed these would be great men for pyrite flints. She didn't think they were very great, or very special as one glittering dame seemed to suggest. With one sniff, she recoiled in revulsion; their pungent odor matched their beggarly tase in clothes. She paid for her bitter water, maintaining minimum eye contact, and left in dusty haste across the street, relying on Scrooge's irregular memory to conceal her. Walking ahead, she soon observed her problem was deeper than she liked.

They walked in the same direction. The BlackJack Saloon and the Aurora Inn were neighbors. The saloon on one side of the road and the inn on the other. Saloon patrons slept at the inn, and hotel guests partied at the saloon. There was something for everyone. Sally scowled. Their fortunate partnership made using the front door impossible. " _I'll hit t_ _he back,_ she chewed her lower lip, sliding between a man on bended knee and a lovely maiden, waiting with bated breath.

“Watch we’re yer goin’ ya’ floozy,” he snapped.

Sally blinked at him, curiously. “Hey,” she raised her finger, “weren’t you at the saloon last night...oh yeah.” She snapped her fingers at the awakening memory, “You were with Glass-Eye weren’t you?”

The lovely maiden turned to the man, who chuckled nervously on his bended need. “Gerald,” she said, removing her hand from his sticky grasp. “What is this woman saying?”

“I-I mean, she don’t know what she’s talking about, hon.”

“I’m sure I recognize you, sir,” Sally raised her chin. “You have that nice patchy bald spot, and a tattoo on your left rump.”

“Gerald!” Cried the lovely woman, and she dashed away into the doctor’s office, shielding her tears with her hands. He growled at her, spat at her feet, and chased after her skirts, whimpering promises and apologies.

Folly it was to assume your love was better than the rest - different and free of moral impasse. “It’s for the best,” Sally shook her head, raising her skirts as she made a sharp right, “better now than tied to him with a baby in her belly.” Her stars died in an instant, and there was no reason for Sally to feel guilty for it. Drawing her shawl tightly, she rapped on the door, waiting for someone to answer.

“Montgomery,” she called. “Come on, it’s Sally!”

On the door was a small slit. Someone on the opposite side of the door pulled the slit open to direct an annoyed, bloodshot glare atop Sally. “What yer comin’ through the front fer,” spittle dripped on his thick lips.

Sally tapped her foot, impatiently. “Now, Monty, I don’t have to tell you why I’m using the back door except that you better open it by time I finish this sentence,” gripping her hips in reprimand, she sniffed proudly as the lock was undone and the door opened. “That’s better,” she chimed.

She stopped at the entrance and peeked through the curtain. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured quietly, “so many people out there. We haven’t had a group like this in over four years.”

“When word got out Goldie was back,” Monty smacked on a honey bacon sandwich, “everyone came pouring in, hoping they’d get to see The Star of the North.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Naturally,” she swung the curtain back. The back way she’d keep using. There was a staircase in the wall workers used to get around undetected. “I’ll get on up there and give her the good news,” she said, hating to pick her dress again to walk, “and keep a eye on that door, Monty. No napping, y’here?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

* * *

Goldie was at the vanity dressing her cheeks with pale blush. Annoyed the coloring wasn’t to her liking, she dropped the brush back into its container and examined. She looked the same. Ice provided remarkable skin care; no wrinkles, no scars, no visible evidence of aging. _“When I return she can’t say how old I’ve gotten,_ she checked her cheeks, a sweet, faint rosy pink, and nodded. _Y_ e _ah, you’ll out glitter the best of them._

As she inspected her appearance, gently coaxing her glamorous hairpin to the center of her up do, and securing her favorite locket in her necklace of fake pearls. She’d thrown a fabulous fit when she came to her senses; the changes at the saloon were discreet, not readily available upon an initial search. After Sally let on her task, Goldie set off to work. She demanded her room, dress, jewels, and most importantly, her mail.

Whispering Winnie ushered her in quickly, reminding her everyone thought she was dead, and ducked when Goldie threw a bedazzled shoe at her head.

"Like I’d leave my real stuff with you folk,” she mumbled under her breath. Her room remained locked and untouched, or so it appeared, but she knew some greedy hands had gone through her makeup and jewelry box. “Jokes on them,” she chuckled. _“_ All fake and swindled at discount stores.” Pyrite was her favorite, and so much of it lied around waiting for some desperate miner to lean on it in poor faith.

On her knees she buried herself in the mission of the paleontologist, exhaustively extracting vanity drawers in a similar manner to long buried dinosaur fossils. She put each to the side along the wall, and got on her knees, pushing her head inside, patting her hand along the back wall. Her tongue clicked impatiently, searching for that soft patch among firmness, and she released a wet sigh when her finger nearly pushed through a thin, papery layer.

“There you are,” breathing through her nostrils, she stretched as far as space allowed until she gripped the small, crisp corner and peeled the layer over. A tightly wrapped bundle of yellowing envelopes showered her hand, blushing it with ruined wood dust. Goldie’s beak closed shut, and she fell back, landing on her bottom while staring at the bundle. Its body was held together with a scarlet ribbon, and she passed over to the upper left corner of the top envelope where a familiar name weeped her name.

A steady thumb and index finger clasped the ribbon’s end, waiting. She was short on time, and she sucked in a sharp, uneasy breath. “I don’t have time for distractions,” she swallowed, pulling an inch, “priorities, Goldie, priorities are going to keep us alive.” Two inches became three. Her chest gave a jolt.

There was a knock.

Goldie shoved the envelopes under her carpet and hurried, smoothing her dress as she went to the door. Scowl ready and arms crossed, she was battle ready, releasing a nasty snarl at the messenger, “What’d ya’ want?”

“Um...well ya’ see Goldie,” said a soft, whistling whisper, “I got yer mail. The stuff you asked for.”

Whispering Winnie. They got Winnie to get her mail! Shaking her head, she knew blaming Sally wasn’t right, but it relieved her inflating irritation. “Where’d ya’ keep ‘em,” she asked.

“Sally kept them in yer mail drawer in the business office,” she squeaked. “Always watching and taking care, except for today. She seemed to know you were on yer way.”

“Plausible,” she mused. “Very plausible.” Opening the door, she put her body in between the three inch pace, covering the mess behind her. Goldie glared at the fidgety mouse before glancing at the oversized enveloped she clutched at her breast. “Thanks,” she snatched the envelope, closing the door with a resounding ‘snap.’

Winnie yelped, and stumbled to the staircase railing, a clumsy thud made contact.

“Yer’ll be on in a few,” she shouted. “In a few.”

With a half-hearted glare at the door, Goldie returned to her mess. Setting her large envelope, which she was certain consisted of multiple envelopes, next to her bundle, she started to deliberate. Closing her eyes, she steadied her breathing and grabbed the large envelope, using a hair pin to remove the hardened sticking paste. Inside the envelopes had a faint yellow color, nowhere close to the greyed, putrid gold the older ones did.

The bundle was also wrapped, but not with tenderness or care. A rough, coarse rope kept them in order, and Goldie sighed, struggling to untangle Sally’s unrefined knots. “I thought I taught her better,” she gnawed on the bitter ropes. “You think you know a person’s rope knotting expertise!” But the knot snapped, and like rain, they poured on her knees, pittering and pattering. Goldie didn’t wait; choosing the closest one, she sliced its top using a long, jeweled hair pin.

As she pulled the letter out, she noticed her hands trembled. Trembling, unsteady, Goldie chuckled weakly, and read the upper left corner. _1902._ A recent arrival. 

 _"When that Sally Sheltie told us ye' went missin', Ae was worried,"_ wrote Ma's trembling hand. _"Desmond and Tanith asked wot it meant. Pa said ye' had taken somethin' that didnae belong ta' ya."_

"It wasn't mine yet," Goldie explained. "And how would he know?"

 _"Ae'm sure ye meant well, and if ye' didnae want ta' get caught ye' woulda' used something stronger like Ae taught ye!"_ Ma's laughter frolicked in her chest, _"Mama would be furious if she thought ye bungled up a good one jes for kicks! Ae knae me girl, and Ae knae ye' 'ave a plan goin' on."_

Goldie reclined, "If everything goes well, we'll be done by June." A soft smile played on her lips, "We'll visit briefly, maybe take the wee ones on an adventure or two."

 _"And ye're probably wonderin' wot yer brother and sister are up ta' now, aren't ye?"_ Ma clucked teasingly,  _"Yer Pa is takin' 'im out on the farm, but Desi insists he's gonna be a mountie, some day. Ae donnae 'boot that! Our family has always been peculiar 'boot law enforcement. And Tani? Well, Ae may jes 'ave to tan her hide! That girl o' mine -,"_ Goldie rolled her eyes, thumbing her locket absentmindedly,  _"always with her head in the clouds, but her teachers are impressed with her. Say she has a knack for understanding scientific concepts. Some trouble at school, Ae suppose, but nothing ta' worry yer lil' head about._ _Yer Pa says all she needs is ta' find a good boy to settle down with, jes as Desi needs to find a good girl to settle with."_

A bitter growl stumbled in her throat. "He'd say that," she hissed darkly. "Let them know what they can do, Ma."

 _"Ae know it isn't wot ye'd like for 'em,"_ she sighed, dramatically.  _"But not everyone is as golden as ye, lovely."_

Goldie curled in a comfortably feline position on the chair, tucking an unladylike knee under her beak as she fell deeper into her family's stories. It'd been six years since she'd last seen her baby siblings, a dopey-eyed boy and a sharp eye-girl.  _Desmond and Tanith,_ her imagination worked on the supposition that after five years their natural O'Gilt charm had finally developed. His dopey-eyed stare and her sharp, piercing one was destined to offer something of substance; their Pa wouldn't have it otherwise. But Goldie didn't have to speculate for long; inside the envelope was a photograph. Bringing it to the light, her tongue clucked, and her heart jolted.

On an honest scale, children were a poor investment. There was nothing special about them. Goldie knew they were bothersome menaces, leaving frogs in her dresses, or stealing the last baked apple at the best chance. She didn't see anything special about the children in the photograph, dressed in their finest clothes wearing sullen expression, but she felt a wave of nostalgia, or longing, as she rubbed her thumb over their cheeks. A young boy, no older than eight, was dressed in traditional Fauntleroy clothing. He wore the hat and the suit and even the unusual stocking pants; the hat didn't appear to sit right on his head, due to his curly hair's wavy texture. Even with the sepia colors, she knew a blond-headed O'Gilt when she saw it. He seemed pleased to have his picture taken; a small smile told her so.

She passed to the girl who wore her brother's expression, and Goldie, despite her best attempts, felt her heart flounder.  _She's so tall,_ she wondered.  _How'd she get so tall?_ She was dressed beside her brother in a long, white laced dress Goldie was certain was second worn out of her closet with well fitting black stockings and equally black shoes. Her dark curls, similar to Desmond's, were styled in sharp ringlets stopping shortly above her elbow. Where her brother greeted the camera with a smile, no matter his exhausted annoyance, Tanith kept her lips in a straight, annoyed line.  _Just like Pa,_ she mused.  _Never satisfied until she has her way._ His left hand and her right hand rested on small coffee table. An interesting angle for a photograph, but impressive for discreetly highlighting their contrasts in simple, accordant ways. 

Goldie flipped the photograph.  _Desmond and Tanith, Aged 8 and 6 years._ Frowning, she pressed the photo on top of her bosom, turning her head aside,  _How time flies when one is freezing in a glacier in search of gold._ She shook her head, and with it, the phantom thoughts hounding her.This wasn't the time to reminiscence. She gathered her letters and tied the string carefully, promising she'd read more when everything calmed down. She was already pushing the last drawer back into the vanity when the door swung open.

"Goldie," Sally gasped. "Oh Goldie, Goldie," she fluttered ahead, twisting her shawl and package in jeweled hands. She handed her the bottle wrapped in cloth, reminding her she purchased it on store credit, and she took a seat in one of the chairs, failing to notice the slightly skewed position the vanity's drawers were in. Goldie scowled, approaching her with crossed arms, grazing a keen stare over the glass vial.

"Pennyroyal, isn't it?" She raised it to the light, "I don't see why you didn't go out into the meadows. It's cheaper and easier."

"An extract is far safer in my circumstance," Sally grumbled, stretching her legs as she untied her boots. "But anyway, I had to hurry through the back."

"Why?"

"Scrooge McDuck is back in town."

Goldie barely contained her excitement, but her eyebrows failed her, shooting up to the tip of her forehead. She sped to the window, peering down into the town's morning business. "Where is he," she asked, searching for any sight of him. "You said he was here, didn't you?"

Sally, too tired to laugh, nodded with a huff. "Yes," she groaned, "he is. He went off with that journalist covering Steele, but Goldie -,"

"Steele? Journalist? Why does he need a journalist for?"

"If ya let me -,"

"I don't get it," she pondered aloud. "Is he writing a story? Scrooge loves to talk, especially about himself."

"Goldie!"

"I'm trying to think!"

"Scrooge is leaving!"

A hair pin toppled off the vanity, landing on the carpet. Its silence was deafening. Goldie turned, brow needled down V-shaped, and she whispered, just loud enough for Sally to hear. "What do you mean, he's leaving?"

"I mean," Sally groaned. "If ya' don't come through with your plan, then you're going to lose your miner for good, hon," she said, and seeing her faintly dumbstruck expression, "aw hon, don't take it hard. There'll be others."

"No."

Sally blinked, "What?"

"I said no, Sally," she glared through the window, right in the corner where she watched him walk inside the Aurora Inn. She clenched the vial in her hand, letting it sink into her feathers. "There will be no others, just him."  _And I'm going to get him to come back to me, one way or another._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goldie's past is something I've always wanted to explore. Naturally, you can't receive the seven course meal in one sitting. We're going to build up to that moment, but this is the start. It's a start I'm extremely fond of too. As always, thank you for your continued readership (and to those who've just started)! Feedback is greatly appreciated. Comments, kudos give me your thoughts.


	8. A Friend In Need

Juicy jerky eased Scrooge’s famished appetite as he wandered around the hotel room. He detected fragrant lilacs without a distinct source, and swiped a finger on the lamp table. “Not a spec of dust,” he mused aloud. He gripped the table edge and snapped another piece of jerky off, “Ae gotta’ admit these hotels may be a dime in a dozen, but they’re mighty swell, Jack!”

Jack grinned, taking a seat near the window. “I’ll tell General Steele,” he raised a hand, “don’t worry about the bed sheets either.”

“Why,” he munched on jerky, dropping bits on his lap.

A look of confusion passed over Jack’s face. “Forget about it,” he chuckled. “The housekeepers will clean up tomorrow anyways. We’re lucky we were able to get seperate rooms.” He turned in the chair, whistling, “Gotta say I’m impressed. We rolled in just this morning and was told Dawson was a dying city. Guess I’ll have to tell ‘em what they’re missing out on.”

Scrooge glared, shoving the last of his jerky in his mouth. “Ae donnae wot the big deal is aboot,” crossing his arms, he did his best to ignore the freshly drawn sign hanging above the saloon’s name. “Sounds like a homecoming feast for some swindler.”

Shining lights, festive music, and roaring applause enamored Jack, and he pressed his black nose to the window. “You mean Glittering Goldie?” Breath fogged the glass, “I heard she’d been missing for five years and recently turned up. They’re celebrating her return! Seems the town missed their most important resident.”

Scrooge’s scowl festered. “Ae may ‘ave heard something about that,” a faint rose touch highlighted his cheeks as he looked away. Lilac spotted wallpaper teased him. “The appeal escapes me.”

“Some miner snatched her off a few years back,” Jack explained.

“What,” Scrooge leaned forward. “Is that wot they’ve been saying?”

“What do you mean?”

“That this miner simply took her, for no reason at all?”

“I believe so.”

Scrooge was stunned, but not entirely. Dawson residents had a particular ability in spinning truth and lies, weaving them into an impossible story sprinkled with both. Although this knowledge did its best to soothe him, Scrooge punched the mattress, snapping three rows of springs, and released a bellow far deeper than his vocal chords were capable of, “She stole me nugget and drugged me! Course Ae dragged that miscreant minx back ta’ White Agony Creek!”

He hadn’t realized he had jumped three feet in the air, landing solidly on the wounded mattress. His nostrils flared. His pale, water blue irises had taken on a reddish hue. “Ae’d do it again, of course, if it meant teaching her a better lesson in hard work,” he gritted, knuckles chalk white.

Jack pushed back in his chair, staring blankly. He glanced warily at the saloon where a woman’s charming chords frollicked up to the ceiling, and slowly, returned to his new acquaintance, still frothing anger out of his beak. He debated what his next statement would be, an opening question or a concluding statement.

“Miscreant minx?” He tapped his temple with his pencil eraser, a coy smile appearing on his muzzle. “Sounds you’ve got a story in there, Buck,” pencil raised above pad, ready to imprint frost buried memories to paper, “want to share some of it with me?”

“And why would Ae do that?”

“King of the Klondike,” Jack grinned. “It’s what they call you.” Jack was a jovial, gleeful man; average, unremarkable. Scrooge noticed an exceptional light simmering in this unremarkable person. (It could be this was what General Sam Steele noticed too. It’s hard to say.) He may not have cared for money or adventure as Scrooge did, certainly not at the same capacity (only one other person held this torch), but he was clever and sly. He knew how to work words in his favor, but Scrooge was ill prepared at the time to defend against it.

He fell back on the mattress, hands in between his legs. “Wot are ye’ gettin’ at, Jack?”

“We’ll get to the truth. Or at least some of it. I’ve been recording the Klondike for years, and this is probably going to be the last time General Sam Steele and I will collaborate. I want to go out in style, do you understand?”

His reasons weren’t identical to Jack’s. Scrooge understood the sentiment. His time in snow and gold had passed, and it was time to move on to the next thing. It wasn’t wise to stay in one place for too long. He contemplated the chances, the possibility, and shaking his head, he knew this wasn’t the place or time. “Ae do,” he sighed, squeezing his knee tightly. “Ae do.”

Jack grinned slowly, nodding. “While there’s time, let's get to work,” he lit the lantern on the vanity, “General Steele is busy conducting the last of his behavioral report, giving us some time.”

* * *

He wasn’t a gambling man.

An iron cord around his wits and wallet kept him sane. A wise man understood the world’s treacherous ways and fought its temptations; pitying weaker men was the best defense

Usual circumstances required sharp distance and self control. Shy from distractions and deny deceitful allures, he warned his young cadets. “Do not fall into the Devil’s trap,” he preached in a princely speech, arms crossed on his back. The dangerous, cruel world knew ten thousand ways to gobble up good men.

While a wise man understood the world’s cruelties, a wiser one understood progress required sacrifice, and a brave man downed their fears, acting selfishlessly without hesitation. It was for this reason General Major Samuel Benfield Steele trotted through town on his favorite horse until he arrived at the BlackJack Saloon's front entrance.

A few hundred jaws dropped to the floor in absolute disbelief, and he paid them no heed as he restrained his faithful animal companion. He marched inside and watched with grim satisfaction as waves of men parted. The infamous establishment wasn’t ready for him, as he previously deduced, and he stopped in the center, scrutinizing every drunken grifter and scantily dressed lady.

All was quiet, scared speechless at the sight of him. His cleft chin turned to the left, to the right, grazing overhead, and finally, to the center stage where a young lady duck adorned in shimmering golds and ruby reds fanned a lightly jeweled fan coyly.

He clicked his shiny, brown boots, straightening his back more than it already was. “Goldie O’Gilt,” his voice bellowed, similar to a gust of wind scattering weak sand particles in thoughtless directions. “I say, Goldie O’Gilt, I request a meeting with the owner of this establishment.”

The singer (and owner) of the named saloon stared back with eyes darker than a freshly cut emerald, more forest than jewel, and she fanned the heat rushing to her cheeks. “You want Glittering Goldie,” she sang in a melodic tone, far more than he expected, and her hips swayed as she was led off stage, “good General Steele is here to charm his way into my heart.”

But no one cheered.

* * *

“What is a fella’ like you doin’ in a place like this,” Goldie set her fan aside, grinning shyly into her coffee reflection. (Sugar and other sweeteners were in short supply.) “I didn’t think you partook in places like these.”

“Well, ma’am,” General Steel said, raising his coffee cup to his lips, “as I am sure you know, I am conducting my latest behavioral report in the city of Dawson.” He drank neatly but heartily, slushing the entire cup in one go. Sitting it down, he exhaled, patting his flat stomach appreciatively, “A damn fine cup of coffee.”

“Thank you,” she poured another cup. “And yes, I am aware of your behavior reports. I’ve gotta say most people don't make return trips."

"Ey, Coot!" A drunk stupor slurred nearby, "More cider for the rest of us, eh?"

"Sorry, buddy," the drunk replied. "I'm right outta dough!"

Goldie glared, annoyed and pleased at the same time. She pushed forward with her brightest smile, feigning interest in the good general's motives.

“Naturally,” he pounded his fist on the table, causing the silverware to shake. “The city’s atmosphere is changing, and people are searching for better opportunities. This will be my final trip.”

“Shame,” Goldie sipped. “It doesn’t appear all is lost in little, old Dawson.” She gestured to the roaring crowd and dancing women. Glasses were poured and empties in record speed, constantly refilled. Jolly music pounded in their ears; yes, the challenge was accepting hard times were coming, accepting they were already alive and present. She met General Steele’s stern stare with a shrug, “What?”

“Miss O’Gilt,” he inhaled through his nose, “there’s no more gold in Dawson.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I know you do,” he crossed his arms, leaning an inch over the table. “I know you’re a smart woman, a businesswoman, and you’re the type to get going when the going gets tough.” He raised his hand, sensing her offense, “I don’t mean to insult. It’s foolhardy to linger in a dying town. These poor gents don’t have enough to buy a loaf of stale bread.”

“And you’re blaming me?”

“I blame them,” he clarified. Glove clad hands crossed, he sniffed softly, “A weak man builds a defense against these sort of establishments. A strong will holds a steady hand. And you…,” a bushy arched eyebrow said more than what was necessary, “prey upon it, but it is no different anywhere else. Man. Woman. We search for our desires and hope we’ll receive them in some capacity.” For General Steele, it didn’t matter your station or class, you desired and wanted and occasionally, worked for the reward.

Goldie’s stare narrowed. “I see what you mean,” she dropped her elbow, locking him square in the eye, “but why are you here? What’s your play, old man?”

“I see.” He didn’t bend to meet her glare. He didn’t twitch his mustache in frustration. “Upon my return I have received multiple complaints about one Scrooge McDuck,” he pulled a letter out of his breast pocket. “98% of the population hates his guts.”

“Frank much?”

“It’s the truth.” The General read the list, “He’s mean and surely. He’s miserly and cruel. Five years ago Sebastian “Soapy Slick” Sawyer lost his steamboat in some sort of altercation with Mr. McDuck. There’s more than enough to arrest him and confiscate his land, but,” he slapped the report angrily, “no one wants to sign the report. Mr. Sawyer paled at the thought of signing the signature.”

“Why do ya’ want this report,” she asked.

“Why?” A slow, clackety sound hissed between his clenched teeth. Goldie realized he was laughing. “Why, ma’am, Dawson may have lost some of its...troubling ways, but the root of all evil still remains,” his chortles grated her ears, “and this Scrooge McDuck is a menace who has plagued the lands for too long!” He slapped his knee loudly, causing their neighbors to jump audibly.

“He’s been missing for five years,” she argued, carefully.

General Steele nodded. “He has, and it has come to my attention he has finally returned,” he folded the list into a small square and returned it to his breast pocket, “and the good citizens of Dawson are terrified. If this city is ever to see the light of justice, the root of evil must be eliminated!” His voice crackled, rippling on top of thick, roarous excitement, “And I will be the man to do it!”

Goldie drummed her fingers on the table. She had taken every speech under consideration; appearing in the darkness was an unlit lantern. She found a match, setting it to flame, and lifted the glass, dark green flickering above oranges and golds.

“What do you need me to do,” she offered.

“Why, I need someone to send in a formal complaint for arrest,” General Steele explained, clicking his boots excitedly. “A legal signature will authorize the arrest report.” He dug into his second breast pocket and procured a paper and pen.

“He abducted me and took me to work on his claim for a whole month,” she said, reading the fine print and adding thick, black ink on the signature line “All I need you to do is send Scrooge my way, and we’ll conduct our mutual pressing formally. We won’t even need to take it to court, I assure you.” She returned the recently formalized report, smirk round and smart.

General Steele examined the signature, moving his monocle from his right eye to his left. “Excellent,” he asserted. “I will send one of my riders in search for this cad and bring him to justice. Thank you, Miss O’Gilt.”

“It’s my pleasure, General,” she rested a hand on his lower back, escorting him out. “I’m sure you won’t have any trouble apprehending that scoundrel.”

“Absolutely not,” he extended his index finger in an upright gesture. “No villain escape General Samuel Steele!”

“That’s the goal.”

Goldie guided him to the exit, leaning on the wall as she watched a younger, thinner mountie rush to him. “Make sure you get this to Scrooge McDuck. He is to be immediately apprehended,” the renowned general instructed.

The younger man saluted; he and his horse went off in the distance, ready to conduct their search.

“Seems things have a way of working themselves out,” Goldie chuckled, turning away from the window, deeds done for the night. She'd have her miner soon enough. Had she paid closer attention (or recognized the young man from Scrooge's stories), she would've noticed an unusual man's attention cornered to the side, inconspicuously drinking their apple cider. Adam's apple throbbing, forehead soaked with seat, his poorly concealed anticipation would've raised suspicion had he been anyone of importance.

Fortunately for him, he wasn’t.

He waited for General Steele to disappear down the road and not across the street. When he saw his chance, he scurried across the street into The Aurora Inn in search of a friend. He didn't spill a single drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goldie and Steele didn't interact much in the original trilogy. I wanted to have that moment where Steele was in a similar position as Scrooge, except he isn't attracted to her as Scrooge obviously was. Her plan is coming together, but it isn't going to produce the type of results she expected. Thank you for reading (new and old), and I can't wait to see you next chapter!
> 
> Any theories? Any thoughts of what's going? There are clues to Goldie's backstory in previous chapters.


	9. A Friend Indeed

“Ae’ve told ye’ Jack,” Scrooge stretched on the bed, “We don’t have abominable snowmen in the Klondike.”

His head bumped gently against Jack’s shoulder. His companion scratched animatedly, tongue tucked inside his cheek. “Are you sure,” disappointment prompted a small pout, “rumors have swirled for years about missing miners and government food supplies.”

“And ye’ don’t think the unpredictable and deadly weather have nothin’ ta’ do about it,” Scrooge glanced at him, inches apart. “Ae reckon most of them got lost in blizzards. Happens when ye’ donnae have a clue where ye’ goin’.”

“There’ve been sightings.” He rolled to his side, opening the lamp dresser drawer. “Some fortunate reporters managed to catch a sight or two of these creatures,” Scrooge took the faded, crinkly newspaper clipping and squinted. “Do you see it?”

Scrooge studied the aged newspaper clipping. He peered at the captured dark figure in the center, a bold headline claiming a territorial beast stalked the nearby area. While no one was reported injured, this mystical animal was blamed for the missing food suppliers. Scoffing, he threw the clipping on Jack’s chest, “Jes because Ae happened ta’ encounter a fuzzy elephant doesn’t mean an abominable monster exists.”

“A polar bear?”

“Ae think it’s too large for a polar bear,” Scrooge theorized. “It’s probably some miner on stilts, or they could be using some sort of a bear coat. Ae saw a feller wearing one, made him look ridiculous.”

Jack stared at the clipping, wondering and hoping for a better argument. “I suppose you make a point,” sobering up, he returned it to the drawer, “but it’s nice to think of the unimaginable. Either way, I need a great story to print when we leave this place. It’s going to put me on the maps.”

Scrooge’s head rested on his folded hands. He stared at his new acquaintance, scrutinizing his determined scowled and far away stare. He cradled his dreams and aspirations close to his chest for years, determined to earn his riches through hard work and adventurous pluck. He’d come far in the years, but with every success, a painful loss followed closely behind. His earnings were rarely permanent, “And those that Ae kept were sent home for the taxes ta’ keep me’ ancestral home.”

“What?”

“Ae mean...ye’ shouldnae let go of that feeling, Jack,” Scrooge glanced at him. “The world’s hard and cruel and mean, and...it can turn ye’.”

Jack laughed sardonically, “You think I don’t know?”

He was a sweet man, strange enough. Soft and squishy and tender, but not gullible. Scrooge detected hard angles and crude sharpness covered under a jovial laugh or eager tip of his hat. Looking away, those fanciful thoughts were carried off, “Ye said this General Steele is here to rid Dawson of injustice and evil?”

Jack blinked, nodding slowly. “Yes, it’s been his goal for years. He’s accomplished grand feats like improving First Nation relations,” he explained. “He’s a visionary. Wants to make the world a more orderly place, for all people.”

“Interesting man,” Scrooge smacked. “But is he really still out at this hour? Ain’t something an orderly man does.”

“He takes afternoon naps, believe it or not,” Jack scoffed-laughed. “I know it sounds preposterous, but with all the work he does, it’s expected. When it’s hot in Dawson, it gets hot, and the sun makes him weary.”

Scrooge had never seen the renowned General Steele but envisioned a gravely, burly sort of man. The idea of him napping like a toddler was humorous. He shook his head; trying his best not to offend with his quiet laughter.

“I’ll admit the visual is as amusing as it sounds,” Jack admitted. “But he’s doing good. He’s determined to make it better. You can’t fault his aspirations.”

“Ae jes wonder how he’s gonna go about doing that,” a practical question to ask knowing the project’s location. As noble as his quest, a single malevolent source wasn’t the originator of evil in the world, and to someone like Scrooge, a believer of accountability, believed his pursuit was a futile attempt to soothe The General’s rational doubts for humanity’s soul.

The entirety of Dawson’s population held the potential to do great good or evil or somewhere in between. It was their choice and was the reason why the city still remained in light’s shadow.

As he watched Jack mull quietly, he realized speaking his opinions wasn’t the kindest thing to do.

“He hasn’t told me his plan, and I don’t expect him to,” he mused aloud. “I’d prefer to watch it unfold anyhow. It makes for a better story.”

Another question was on the edge of Scrooge’s tongue when the mattress began to vibrate. So did the dresser and the tables and the walls; gripping the bed as he sat sharply, he saw their room shake uncontrollably. Ae must’ve had too much jerky, but he turned to Jack, who also held onto the bed without an ounce of surprise on his face. A lamp crashed to the floor, and suddenly, they were propelled in an empty, dark room. He wasn’t going mad with frost fever.

As quickly as it came, it ended just as. “Wot happened,” he rolled off the bed, heading to the door. “Jack, are ye’ okay?”

“I’m fine!” He groaned, frowning over the mess on his side, “That’s the third lamp this week.”

Scrooge opened the door and groaned at the man bent over side his side of the bed. Carefully, he picked the the larger shards of broken glass, searching for something to push them in. “Third time,” Scrooge asked. “Yer tellin’ me these earthquakes happen frequently?”

“It isn’t an earthquake,” Jack answered. “It’s the boiler. The manager gave us a tour on the day we arrived. Something’s up with the boiler, but they don’t have the money or the manpower to fix it.”

“Unusual seeing as they’re the best hotel in town.”

“Yeah,” Jack stood, careful to step back away from the broken glass. “But that’s what happens when you’ve made your bed in a dying town. People are moving on.”

“Blimey.”

It wasn’t a surprise. Promise was a temporary guest, and a constant victim of fickle winds.

Hearing it repeated cemented his final decision. He paused at the door, frown thoughtful, “Ae’m glad Ae’m movin’ on now,” his back hit the wall, “Spent days ruminating wot to do, wot was the right decision. There was no gold lagoon, Ae made enough money and was out of food. Took wot Ae could, but the blizzard nearly killed me! Lost my sled, the wolves Ae partnered with went on their way.”

“What was in the sled?”

“Nothing important.” He rubbed his arm, “Ye’ say the boiler causes all that racket?”

“It’s what the manager said.”

“Ae hope it doesn’t blow on us,” Scrooge chuckled. “Ae’m goin’ take a step outside for a second, get some towels for the mornin’ if there are any left. Ae’ll like ta’ take a hot bath tonight.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” back in bed, he found a replacement lantern. “So much to do while the night’s still young, and you’ve given me inspiration.”

* * *

With its mostly clean and summer time smelling bed sheets, The Aurora Inn proved its worth to a town of degenerate thieves.

Built at the city’s founding, its career started as a dancehall under the same moniker. When the Blacjack Saloon proved the more profitable establishment, the owner swiftly repurposed its structure. Its main entrance retained its dance hall design with its bright golden chandelier hanging on the ceiling; a feature Scrooge gazed briefly at as he walked briskly to the receptionist desk. He was hopeful for a hot bath to rid his feathers of unidentified grime.

As he approached the front desk, his warm thoughts appeared fantasy.

“Ya’ gotta help me,” someone fretted at the desk. “Ya’ gotta! I need to find my friend.”

The receptionist, a man whose unusually upright nose seemed bent, raised his snout in the other direction. “Forgive me sir, but I can’t let you enter our hotel with such language,” he covered his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief, “a friend in Dawson? The obscenity.”

“Sir, I’m telling you this is a serious matter,” the hotel guest begged. “I need to find my friend.”

Scrooge scared at the guest’s simple, pointed hat, its middle wrapped in green cloth. “Bless me bagpipes,” he blinked, tilting his head. “Casey Coot, is that you?”

Casey glanced in the direction of his shouts, and the brightest grin appeared on his face, “Scrooge!” He snapped his beak shut, rushing to his friend and gripping his hand, “We gotta go!”

“Hold on a sec -,” Scrooge said. “Ae need ta’ get me towels for my bath.”

“Forget yer bath,” Casey whipped around, seeing the receptionist’s shocked gaze and quick stare at the busboy. “We need ta’ get outta here! Do ya’ have a place  to hide? Come on!”

“Wait, but -,” sweat dripped off Casey’s beak. His lank grip was uncomfortably stiff, and Scrooge groaned, rolling his neck in aggravation. Goodbye to a warm bath and lilac scented towel. “Ae’m roomin’ with some reporter, come on.”

“We need to hurry.” Scrooge suspected there was cause for the troubling shudder in his voice, but said nothing more until they faded in one of the hallways.

* * *

Their return took no more than ten minutes. Casey's tittering made time feel slower than it was. Sweat sprinkled on his collar. He tugged his hat, nearly pulling it over his eyes as he repeated the information he overheard. Scrooge replied with an idle, “Yes, yes,” dragging his attention over a pile of white, freshly washed towels seated on a wheeled cart.

“If they find me, I don’t know what they’ll do.”

“Yes, yes, it’ll be a shame.”

“And if they find you,” Casey trembled, “I don’t want to think what they’ll do to you!”

“A cryin’ shame, Ae suppose.”

He clutched his throat, stare comparable to dinner plates. “They’ll hang me by my tailfeathers,” he whispered. “They’ll throw ya’ in jail and take your claim -,”

“Wot,” Scrooge bristled to attention. He gripped his friend’s shoulders and forced him to face him. “Wot do ye’ mean take my claim,” horrified and anxious, sweaty forehead met sweatier forehead, “don’t they knae how much work Ae put into that claim? How much Ae've sacrificed?”

Casely shivered. “They don’t care,” he whimpered. “I heard General Steele tellin’ another Mountie to find you. After more than half a decade, they've gotten someone to sign the arrest report on ya."

“Who,” Scrooge growled. His fists twisted his shoulder painfully, and his the blood vessels in his eyes swelled. “And why,” he uttered lowly.

“He’d been talkin’ about getting rid of evil, but no one stepped up. Afraid of ya’, I reckon,” holding his hat, Casey met Scrooge’s glare head on, “some folks told ‘im what happened last time ya’ were in town -,”

Scrooge didn't have to hear the rest. As if he’d been tossed back into that cruel water, Scrooge stopped. He released his hold and stumbled back, clasping his head in exhausting shock. His back hit the wall, and he slumped, head hanging low.

“Last time Ae was in town,” he repeated.

“Yep.”

“Last time Ae was,” he trembled. “Last time Ae came ta’ teach a pilfering polly the meaning of hard work," he finally sputtered.

“Yeah,” Casey nodded solemnly. Unable to observe Scrooge's misery, he tended to the keloid scars on his feet. "I wish that was all I had to tell ya'," he picked off a large slab of dirt, "but I can't keep quiet." Rising again, he grabbed Scrooge's arm and guided him to the hallway's end. There were no doors or suspicious concierges ready to squeal at the earliest chance.

Scrooge let his friend guide him. Anger hadn’t broken the numb bubble he was trapped in.

“Now, listen,” Casey replicated Scrooge’s hold albeit kinder and gently. He gripped his shoulders, “I heard the good general mention something else to that Mountie. Something about treasure.”

“Treasure?” Scrooge nodded to the side, “No, that can’t be it. Goldie and Ae didnae find the golden lagoon. We don’t know where it is, if it exists at all.”

“He didn’t mention a lagoon.”

“Wot?”

“He didn’t say nothin’ about a lagoon,” he whispered. “He said somethin’ about a map and a castle in Rome Anna.”

“Rome Anna?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, quivering fitfully in the center of his neck. “Sounds about right,” he inhaled shakily. “There’s more to this. He wants to rid the city of evil and find whatever is lurking around us.”

“Hm,” shaking off his fresh grief, Scrooge pulled himself back on his feet. “He had ta’ have gone ta’ Goldie to get her signature,” the pieces were easy to connect, “but if she knows about the treasure, she’ll double cross him no doubt.” He held Casey’s gaze, “We need ta’ talk to Jack.”

* * *

 At the door they waited, hearing another inside that wasn’t Jack. Scrooge and Casey inhaled uneasy breaths.

“I say Mr. London, you have been a most articulate ally,” rumbled an unusually ardent voice, “your writing is both descriptive and passionate, with some technical texture that enhances it flavor.”

“Yes sir, thank you, was your trip successful?"

“I sent one of my men off to White Agony Creek,” a disappointed groan and heavy footsteps towards the bed, “they may be able to find him before tomorrow’s end, but I have heard exceptional descriptors of this individual.”

“All of them negative,” Jack asked tensely.

“Unmistakably, this best has committed terrible crimes in this righteous city.”

“He’s been missing for five years.”

“And one would think the city would be freed,” explained The General. “But his influence is greater than I anticipated. When he is apprehended, his assets will be seized and justice will prevail.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scrooge clasped Casey’s beak in a tight hold, forcing him swallow his overly dramatic gasp. Slowly they tiptoed back, all the way around the corner until they were no longer in their potential range of sight. “What are going to do,” Casey exhaled once they were in the temporary clear. “He’s in the room, has your stuff. We’re gonna -,”

Ignoring his friend’s troublesome imagines, he brisked over the hallway, surveying each item’s invisible worth, and clicked his tongue. His answered Casey with a firm squeeze around his wrist, and grinned. Casey’s confused gaze followed his until it rested on the line of closed windows running along the wall. He shook his head, terror rising in his beady pupils.

“Scrooge, no.”

“Jes a few rooms down, and we’re in the back side,” he explained. “Ae normally wouldnae go for drastic measures, but drastic times call for ‘em.”

“What if you fall?”

“Ae’m Scrooge McDuck,” Scrooge smirked. “All ye’ need ta’ do is keep watch. Distract folks. Ye’ve got a knack for it.”

Straw slipped out of Casey’s hat as he wordlessly debated his choices. Scrooge waited, smirk never dimming as he knew the answer, and he chuckled when his friend sighed, wiping his cheeks feverishly in resignation.

“Alright, Scrooge,” he pressed his hat to his chest. “Might just be the stupidest thing ya’ ever done, but at least Elvira and the kids'll know I didn't go down cowardly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like DuckTales 2017, I relied heavily on Don Rosa's Duck Family Tree. If you have any questions, refer to that. It's really useful, and the artwork is really nice.
> 
> I know it's a slow build to the FIRE, but trust me, it's coming. Scrooge is just gonna have to maneuver his skills a bit tighter than he thought he'd have to.


	10. Letters to Home

_“Dear Ma, are you doing well -,”_ she scratched through the sentence. _“Thanks for the letters. Hope you and the family are doing well,”_ she scratched another.

Goldie set the pencil down. Under usual circumstances, letter writing was a cathartic chore she pursued for familial updates. It shouldn’t be as difficult as this. With a deep inhale, she set her pen back to work.

 _“I suppose you and Pa could be doing worse,”_ she wrote in neat, cursive script. _“It’s true. I was taken prisoner after an unfortunate encounter with one vindictive miner, but rest assured, I’ll make up for lost time and money.”_ Goldie reread her gloating, and her satisfied smirk fell.

She crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and tossed it in the bin. A fresh sheet, a pencil over a pen, _“I know I ought to have come home sooner, but the money was getting good. How’s Pa? Desmond? Last time I saw Tanith -,”_ her pencil tip paused, hovering over the last letter, _“tell me the family is doing well. Either way, I plan to visit after this rolls over. By the end, we’ll be swarming in gold. And that’ll convince you to -,”_ a third pause and a scowl.

Verbal desires were equally difficult to transfer to written word, she discovered. Her letters imitated her vernacular to perfection, but she had drained her resources. Emotional constipation of this severity was more than she believed necessary. Grossly overrated was what it was, to send and receive letters from home.

Goldie’s lungs expanded as a long breathed winded Her imagined readers mocked her unfinished letter. Ma sat in her favorite chair knitting as she read aloud. Every sentence was misconstrued to her liking, and Pa grumbled in front of the fire, expressing his obvious distaste. His morning paper soothed his distaste.

 _Why am I doing this,_ a traitorous voice asked. _When I get the gold, and Scrooge...nothing will be able to stop us,_ she reflected on her reflection. Her hair was styled in its usual fashion, sparkling hairpin pinned at the top. Her dressed flared and glittered. The finest fake pearls adorned her neck. _You know why. You know why you’ll come back._ A tremor at her throat, and she clasped it tightly, battling the irritated tingle of incoming tears.

She pushed her reflection away,  swaying to the window to watch the city below. It was a stark contrast to day. Dawson wasn’t peaceful or quiet, but if you looked hard enough, semblances existed here and there. At night, the great lights and festive mood made this easier to accomplish. Goldie saw no beauty, no absent acts of kindness; just an empty hall of greed and self importance. The dark light stared back.

“Wait,” her eyebrow curved. “What is that?”

She peered closely into the window, squinting at an unusual visual her sight questioned. Something moved at the hotel windows, barely clinging on for dear life, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared.

As her brain processed this new information, the door disrupted her concentration. "Goldie," a blonde, velvety rabbit peaked her head through. "Goldie, where are you? They want an encore."

Goldie spun around, “Hungry for more?” Her skirt’s thick laced end swirled tauntingly, and she tilted her head back, beak lifted, “I suppose it won’t hurt. I’m sure the girls are ready for a fine picking.”

"Eh, think they've already had their fourth helping," she shrugged. "But who's counting, really?"

"I know you are, Tricky Trixie," Goldie gripped her hips, sauntering to the dance halls where her glitter rivaled the sun's. What she'd almost seen across at The Aurora Hotel was left forgotten.

* * *

As Casey Coot put it, the idea was amazingly stupid. This, however, didn’t stop Scrooge. Coot watched the area inconspicuously, doing his best not to seem obvious, and fortune shined on them with the hall’s emptiness. Scrooge opened the window, carefully stepping on the ledge. Cool night air slapped his face, tickled his whiskers, and he inhaled, nodding to Casey behind him.

One step. Two step. It was like hopping on stones in a river. The main difference was his hops were reserved to half formed skips. His stomach and heart toppled over each other, slapping and squishing, but that was okay. Acceptable even. As long as he kept his wits about him, as long as he remained undetected, he was safe. _Safe is relative,_ back pressed against stone, he tiptoed on the corner, releasing his breath when he made it on the other side.

 _Three more ta’ go,_ teeth gritted, Scrooge moved on.  _Not so bad._

* * *

“A disappointment is what it was,” General Steele lamented. “He must’ve absconded back to White Agony Plains, but I trust my mountie to find him. He is a great finder.”

Jack curled in a chair, jotting down notes and nodded, “Indeed, I’m sure he will.” He trusted the mountie sent to the dangerous depths of White Agony Plains would survive the journey there and back. “Have you eaten sir,” he asked, studying his disrobing form.

“Certainly,” The General replied. “I had a delicious garlic toast, a thick roast, and some delicious beans at The Blackjack Saloon.” He buttoned his nightshirt and slipped underneath the covers, “I washed it down with a completely drug-free cup of coffee!”

Jack smiled, “Good for you.” He glanced out the window, tilted his head, and whistled through his teeth. “Sir,” he said, “have a good rest.”

“And you too, Mr. London,” he rumbled gently. “I understand one bed is a little tight, but we cannot afford to waste funding.”

“Acceptable. I admire your frugal spending habits,” Jack patted his knee. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Mr. London,” like a light, he was out. His snores hammered on the walls, killing the tender silence the night had provided. Jack smiled, shaking his head, and set his notepad aside, walking to the window. The cold winds didn’t disturb him. He inhaled blissfully and turned his attention to the right.

“Hello, Scrooge,” he greeted with a smirk. “I see you’re hanging around.”

Scrooge glared, “Not the time.”

Jack laughed, “I know.” He disappeared for several seconds, “Sorry, had to stuff your things away, so he wouldn’t get suspicious.”

Scrooge entered silently, swallowing a tightly coiled breath. “Understandable,” arms crossed, he remained near the window, never removing his gaze off the sleeping general, “but ye’ couldae sent my things elsewhere ye’ know.”

Jack opened the closet, dragging out the oversized sack. “I thought about tossing it out the window,” he dragged the load to him, “but that’s like leaving it to the leeches.” Scrooge chuckled, staring worriedly at the sleeping general. “Don’t worry,” Jack said, “he’s worse than a bear during hibernation.”

He watched Scrooge take the bag with a single hand and strap it onto his back in a similar fashion. He hunched forward ever so lightly, a consequence of weight and gravity, but he seemed unfeathered by the uncomfortable contents resting on his spine.

“Ae’ll take me leave now,” moving at a quiet pace. “It’s my best shot.”

Jack nodded, “General Steele won’t give up until you’ve been apprehended or his opinion has been swayed.”

“Swayed?”

“Yes,” confusion pinched his lips together. “General Steele isn’t an unreasonable man. He relies on evidence given. If you were able to offer a valid counter argument -,”

“Like a witness?” Scrooge scratched his head, “Only person alive who’d vouch for me is Casey Coot.”

“Sorry friend, I don’t want to dismiss your friend’s good character. The argument needs to have credit to persuade him otherwise.” He cupped his cheek thoughtfully, putting his elbow in his other hand, “You said you and Miss O’Gilt had an amicable partnership?”

“Ae never said that,” Scrooge hissed.

“I’m a journalist, Scrooge,” Jack countered. “It’s my job to read between the lines while gathering the facts. She’s your best bet in getting the charges dropped.”

“Goldie hates me -,” he looked away. “All she wants is me money.”

“Do you really believe that,” Jack asked.

Scrooge returned to him, shock stretching his sights. His shoulders stiffened, and he lifted his beak haughtily, “Ae believe wot Ae see, and she hasn’t pressed anything else.”

Jack pouted, annoyance driven on his brow, but he said no more, gripping the doorknob. “Either way, if you can convince her to drop the charges, you can save yourself,” he opened the door, “and I don’t think she’ll need much persuading, based on what you’ve -,” he stopped mid sentence.

“Jack?”

He closed the door.

“Jack?”

He didn’t turn around, “You need to leave. Now.”

“Wot?

“You need to -,” three sharp knocks shortened his sentence, and Scrooge understood. He stepped back quickly, moving to the window as instructed, just as Jack opened the door.

“Mr. London,” saluted the mountie, “I have important information for General Steele about the perpetrator.”

“Perpetrator, you say,” Jack was suddenly was pushed to the side where General Steele’s hulking, barrel chested stood in its place. “My good man, speak quickly and accurately.”

“On my way to White Agony Plains, I was several eyewitnesses notified me that he returned earlier today!”

General Steele folded his arms on his back, and clicked his brown boots together in excitement. “Great Scott,” his gasp rumbled. “He is in this very town. Did they tell you where he was going?”

Jack paled.

The mountie shook his head, “No, the witnesses scattered the moment they caught sight of him.” He frowned, shoulders staggering in disappointment. “I hurried to tell you as soon as I was informed. Knowing his description and his general location, it shouldn’t be long until we’ve found the scoundrel!”

General Steele’s moustache trembled with approval. “What a great report,” he said. “Now, we need to find out where he is in the city,” quickly assessing their updated situation, he folded his hands behind his back, “he can be anywhere. Check all saloons, stores, and other sensible things this McDuck may have taken part in. I did hear about his reluctance at entering the local finance office, but do not overlook it. The least likeliest places he may seek asylum at.”

It was at that moment General Steele turned around, ready to prepare his uniform for another haggard adventure when he stopped in his tracks. Jack stopped breathing. The mountie at the door tilted his head, unable to see due to the general’s broad shoulders, but knew something important was happening. He pushed through, also shoving Jack to the side, who stood in controlled surprise.

“My general, what’s the matter -,”

He also went silent.

A pan fell off his pack, landing with a loud thud on the floor. Scrooge didn’t lament the loss of the skillet. He gripped both sides of the window, holding their attention with a speechless expression of his own.

“Nice tae meet ye’ General,” he tipped his hat, and let go.

“You,” General Steele said in a deathly quiet tone. Jack and the mountie ran to the window where Scrooge descended. A fitful search ensued in the darkness, but the area was poorly illuminated. They heard a thud, a grunt, and whispered exclamations.

“The chase ensues,” The General commanded. Jack and the Mountie directed their attention onto him and gasped. He was dressed spectacularly in his uniformed; chiseled chin prepared for the dangerous pursuit.

“How did you dress so fast,” Jack asked.

“A reputable gentleman,” The General answered in a mildly scolding tone, “is always prepared to dress in their finest finery on the onset of war.”

“But it isn’t war,” Jack said. “Never mind,” he grabbed his notepad and pencil. “A journalist doesn’t stop when the story gets going.”

* * *

He pack broke his fall. On his back, Scrooge blinked wearily, vision blurry and stilted. A ringing pounded in his ears. _No, no,_ he rolled to his side. He scratched the nearby fence, relying on its support as his feet wobbled. _Cannae stop now, old boy,_ he wobbled down the alley and made a harsh turn. Leaving Casey behind was regrettable, but their time table had been cut drastically in the passing minutes. A separation benefited them both.

Scrooge wobbled aimlessly. His head throbbed in rotation. Coherent thought resumed in intervals. He knew he needed to lay low. He knew he needed to hide. Spring wobbling in an industrial maze, his tasks seemed impossible. The population’s loathing of him made identification second nature to them. _Ae jes need ta’,_ another sharp turn, _find a place to hide._

Then he hit something. He hit something hard.

“Ack!” His head bounced back. Pain rippled along his beak, “Wot in the world?”

He blinked, shook his head, and stared at what blocked his way. A cart. No, something larger. A wagon, a wood carriage reindeer drawn. The driver wasn’t at the reigns. Scrooge heard a not so distant  cry, “I need direction to the deposit. Yes, yes, I understand the train, but the shortage happened sooner than was anticipated.” Irrelevant to Scrooge, he scrambled at the wagon’s opening, dragging himself underneath the great green sheet blanket. He crawled his stomach to the very end, pushing squeezing between thick, heavy crates and bags.

“Thank you, sir!” A door slammed, and there was a sleight weight shift to the front. “Alright boy,” the driver said, picking up the reigns. “Off we go!”

The carriage slid smoothly, they bounced, and as melted snow crackled in Scrooge’s hearing, so did the harsh crunch of heavy boots as they raced past his location.

“Hurry, men!” General Steele shouted, “We must not let the evil get away!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Right away, General!”

Scrooge chuckled as the wagon moved further away, and the sharp boots were replaced with a jovial hum and whistle. He estimated the ride was at least ten minutes with casual turns and twists, frequently accompanied with hearty laughs and general compassion. In a partial circle, tucked between two crates, Scrooge’s stomach lightened and fluttered. He couldn’t count on his fingers the years since he’d last heard any semblance of good willed humanity.

 _Bless me bagpipes,_ the absence concerned him. _Wot’s become of me?_

Observing his lack of warmth and good will towards man, Scrooge didn’t realize the carriage had parked, and the driver approached his hiding spot. He patted his animal companions on the head, thanking them for the safe journey, and whipped the upper corner of the sheet off.

“Oh my,” he murmured. “That is for charity, sir.”

Scrooge would’ve jumped had he the space. Instead, his startled self upended with a slight head nod between what he saw was an uncooked ham to his left and rutabagas to his right. “Ae dinnae eat a single scrap,” he grumbled, loud enough for the man to hear.

To his surprise, he laughed. “Certainly, a man of great self-control you must be,” he gripped the top side of Scrooge’s bag and slowly pulled him out, “to not eat a single of the food supply.” In a brightly lit stable, Scrooge saw the man was dressed in diluted red and white. His wrinkled skin was moderately frosted, and when he tugged on his beard, snow sprinkled down.

“Thanks,” Scrooge sighed. “Ae dinnae know wot ta’ do when Ae hit your carriage.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” they shook hands, and the man started to unload the cart. “You can help by distributing the food to the main hall.”

As much of a hurry he was in, Scrooge knew leaving wasn’t in good order. Albeit unknowingly, the man had assisted him and accepted his unwarranted appearance in good spirits. He shrugged, reaching for a crate at the carriage end. The driver’s warm attitude was contagious; Scrooge felt a smile tugging at the corners of his beak. _After this, Ae’ll make my way to saloon,_ he planned. _Talkin’ ta Goldie is the only way ta’ save my claim and clear my name!_

“You.”

With one foot raised in mid step, Scrooge greeted multiple incredulous stares. Stares, he realized, he’d encountered sporadically in the past, and time had aged their skin and darkened their complexions. Older, tired, weakened, these men who easily recognized him hadn’t forgotten.

“Scrooge McDuck,” they sneered.

Unfortunately, this indicated intact anger as well. 

Scrooge's frown scowled aside. 

“Oh, phooey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love writing Goldie's inner monologue. It's far more entertaining than I ever expected, but that isn't to say Scrooge's inner thoughts aren't interesting. I love how much work they're putting in reuniting without thinking that talking it out like sensible, responsible adults is an easier option. 
> 
> Thank you, old and new readers. As always, feedback is appreciated!


	11. Hearts of the Yukon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer. I couldn't afford to cut it in half. I think it was worth it.

Night’s remaining hours soared with festive familiarity. As the music lulled to infrequent, enthusiastic melodies, Goldie watched the subsequent performances at a higher level. Arms on the banister, she measured the sway of Sally’s hips on center stage. Their guests’ heads swished side to side every time they moved.

Satisfied for coins and gold nuggets glittered at the dancer’s feet, she compared them to Scrooge and weighted them as poor flints in comparison. This climate couldn’t afford choosing beggars. Scoping the rest of the dance hall, she spotted her girls circling starving customers.

Nimble, slender fingers (the best for this profession), picked in and out while a dazzling smile and a ready rump distracted them. Goldie nodded, giving them the sign to continue while opportunity lasted, and she walked in the opposite direction, skin sliding on the railing.

She raised her skirt as she descended the stairs, beak tilted up so high she couldn’t see their faces below. She discreetly disappeared behind the stage curtain, entering chaotic organization. Other ladies and stagehands prepared for the next performance. Glass Eye held her famous glass eye in front her empty socket, ready to shove it in for her trance dance. Goldie maneuvered around high heels and long legs and powerful perfumes. No one approached or addressed her. She preferred it that way. She’d done her part, and they were doing theirs.

Business Office read on the center door’s plaque. She centered and shut the door behind her, and sat at her desk. Nothing much had changed. Papers floundered on her desk, there was no window, and the room smelled of musk. Her nostrils flared in irritation as she sat in her chair, stiff and uncomfortable. She turned on the lamp.

Glancing at her breasts, she dug in the middle, teasing out a folded sheet. Lying it flat on the surface, she brought the lamp closer for viewing pleasure, and she read hungrily. _General Defender,_ she smirked, _more like General Oblivious._ All she had to do was rest her hand on his lower back as the other teased the map out of his inner vest pocket. He didn’t even feel it. This increased her excitement. She tilted her head, doing her best to understand the meaning of the worlds written below. The obvious English script wasn’t confusing, but its meanings, the signifiers held underneath baffled her.

_“Samuel, you know you are always welcome in our home. Your tenacity has proven worthy and dependable in trying times, and although I wish you the absolute best in your endeavors, I worry. Your life remains in peril.  The danger will not cease once you have taken on this particular venture. While I remain in our ancestral home in Romania, doing my best to project the jewel, I cannot help but desire to cast spells for your protection._

_Yes, I know. No spells. You are no cheat. Alas, these are my desires, and I am willing to bury them for your sake. It is best to retrieve the relics and guard the monstrosity the treasure contains. These Five Treasures - ha on believers, and pity those who seek its vicious wonders. Samuel, I know you will do your best to protect humanity’s hope. Be vigilant, and be safe.”_

_-Your dearest friend,  
_ _M.M._

Goldie skipped the rest of the letter, mentally notating the locations listed. _Romania, West Africa..._ was what the letter identified as the ancient relics last known locations. She chewed her cheeks irritably. These places were farther than she ever dreamt of; closer to London and Paris, just as she imagined. As exotic and tempting these unexplored lands were, trepidation stunted her.

 _Is it too far,_ she deliberated, _I can always come back. Send letters. It’s all for her, them._ Whatever this treasure was, and Goldie’s imagination was broad, there was a sense of danger surrounding it. A little danger never frightened her, but she wasn’t an idiot. Preparations were in order. She needed to settle her saloon affairs. And...and...she swallowed.

Her plan to get Scrooge back was coming along swimmingly. She reckoned by time this endeavor was concluded he’d be eating out of her hand, but as she stared at this treasure map, with its attention to fine detail, she realized this was the sort of thing up Scrooge’s alley. A slow, mischievous smirk stretched across her beak, and she chuckled.

It’d set him on fire knowing she’d discovered a treasure on her own, and better yet, she snagged it before he did. She saw him in her eye’s mind; his shock and boiling anger, just for it to melt into fitful adoration.

A thought pushed against the forefront of her brain, and her smirk tumbled. General Steele was in town to cleanse the city of evil. He didn’t mention anything about a treasure. _I wouldn’t have either. This means he must be searching for something of value here._ The letter and its connected map didn’t suggest anything more, stating the relics were required to release the true treasure. What did the Yukon have to do with it?

“We gotta get out of here,” cried someone on the other side. Her head stared at the door, and she quickly slipped the folded parcel back into its tucked space within her breasts and corset.

She swirled in her wheeled chair, huffing and puffing the moment she kicked open the door. Chaos of another kind had erupted in her saloon. The sound of feet (and money) stampeding to the exit made her heart thump anxiously, but she spat fire in its place. Eyeing the screaming men and women, she spotted the easiest catch, snatching a stage hand’s sleeve. He jerk d clumsily, nearly falling backward if not for her sudden release and sudden recapture, forcing his knees to bend to her level.

“What the hell is going on -,”

“Paul,” filled the stage hand.

“Whatever,” she twisted his collar, nostrils flaring. “Answer the question.”

“The city’s on fire!” He wrenched free, tripping over his feet as he searched for the nearest exit. He disappeared through the curtains where screams and hollers suppressed laughter and applause.

Skepticism weakened the barrier preventing annoyance

Hiking her skirts her up, Goldie trudged up the back stairwell. She pushed Glass Eye to the side, deaf to her grunt at her stomach collided with the railing. She barked an empty command to Snake-Hips, occupied as she attempted to calm the younger dancers.

She marched and pushed. No measly spark was going to rain thunder on her parade. Above the stage and dance hall, she saw their panicked flight and scowled at her abrupt losses. She was going to work triple to make up the potential, but there wasn’t time to formulate a plan. Her peripheral vision alerted her to the light glowing in the not so far distance.

Goldie was at the window, and she turned her head to face it. She gasped a little, and raised the window for a better view. An infernal tornado swirled, claimed, and devoured everything in it is path. This explained the unreasonable panic. Destruction and fear and death overwhelmed the city she called home, and she was delighted. A wolfish grin accompanied her gaze’s natural ember glow, a consequence to the flame’s reflecting in her eyes.

“Oh my, oh my,” she sung excitedly. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as flames danced.

Everything was coming together nicely.

* * *

This was unprecedented, or maybe, the assumption was an exaggeration. The majority of the population’s abnormal fondness of Scrooge McDuck was well documented. He knew this, and they knew it. So, he stood facing over twenty enemies. Each seemed more ready than the man next to him to tear Scrooge apart.

It was tense. Glare on glare. Snarl in snarl. Each man present waited for someone to make the first move. His fingers scratched the crate; it’d make s great weapon in the ensuing brawl.

“Jolly!” The hefty driver came around the wagon’s corner, “Good to see a good number of people here.” He carried a crate in his arms, but it was the bizarre timbre of his voice that caught the would be assailants off guard.

Their attention spun to him, and their glares turned questioning. “Who are you, old timer,” one asked with a grizzle on his tongue.

“Me,” the driver laughed. “I am a government food supply to assist during these trying times. We were told the food train had run short. Hopefully, others will arrive shortly.”

Understanding dawned on their prematurely weathered faces.

“Wait,” one man glanced to the other on his right and left, shaky belief drying in his beard, “you’re saying -,”

“Yes, you poor boy.”

“Food.”

Scrooge faced a special type of desperation that night. Stomach cramping, delusion filled desperation as one did their best to survive in less than fulfilling conditions, through robbery and murdering and other self-described inconsequential actions erupted out of a poorly contained box. He was thrown aside, crate snatched out of his hands as the famished men consumed their saving grace.

One sobbed over a raw egg.

Two fought over an uncooked man.

A third bartered a single shoe for a carrot.

Scrooge fell back, toppling a lit lantern over on a small pile of hay. He gripped a beam to steady himself and realized a spectacular thing. When stacked against the high chance of starvation, money and gold and settling old scores was inconsequential. An opportunity to fill your empty, horrifically cramping stomach and to cease mind shattering delusions exceeded all other earthly desires.

Scrooge watched this display of human depravity and scoffed at it. _Ae need ta’ get ta’ get to the Blackjack Saloon,_ he raced out of the stable, leaving the men to their uncooked meals.

The lit lantern and hay never crossed his mind.

* * *

“Mr. London, it appears the city is aflame,” observer General Steele, running in the direction he presumed the target of his pursuit had gone.

Running at his idea, pencil scratching on paper, was The General’s journalist aid. “It appears to be the case, Sir,” the journalist agreed. “What can we do?”

“Hm.” The General contemplated their options. At last, the solution arrived, and he raised his index finger, “My good sir!”

“Yes, General,” the Mountie flanked his right.

“Alert the Fire Brigade. I know several are nearby in the mountains and some are closer,” The General instructed. “They are familiar with the territory.”

“Do you want all?”

“Any and all they can spare,” The General said. “When the horn calls, they will come,” his monocle beamed a stern glare, “Now, hurry!”

The Mountie saluted and made a sharp turn in the opposite direction. Angry flames were inches away, and his visage appeared devoured within them, somehow gathering size and strength. The General and his journalist weren’t worried. They heard the man’s familiar steps, pronounced against its slippery and tripping neighbors.

“I sure hope this works like you plan it to, General,” Jack glanced back at the mountie’s shadow. “It’d be a shame to lose a good man, or to lose the city again.”

“It’d be a tragedy for the populace, yes,” The General agreed. “But Charlene is a dependable and militant officer.”

“Charlene?”

The Colonel fixed stare didn’t fall on him. Jack shivered all the same at the dark tone resonated off his speech. “An error, Mr. London. Charles is a dependable and militant officer, my trusted comrade. You will include that in your report. If it were to happen an error was printed,” the underlying threat whispered in the flames, and Jack swallowed thickly.

“No, no,” he shook his head, blaming the heat for his abundance of sweat. “Charles has gotten this far. I’m sure he can handle it.”

“Yes, he can.” His moustache twitched, and he opened his eyes. “I say,” he pointed ahead, “do you see that little dot, Mr. London.”

Jack saw a lot of things. He saw men and women and children running in various directions, most in the opposite direction. He saw skirts raised and men carried on the back of women as they trudged along, carrying the barest essentials if they were capable of carrying anything essential at all. He saw terror and resignation and anger clinging to ash colored skin. What he didn’t see was the incoming dot, charging in the center of the screaming mob, fists clenched and snarl pearled in ivory.

He noted this down on his notepad. It’d sound dramatic for the press. He - Jack London, the journalist, the inexperienced interloper on this journey didn’t compare to the mighty Samuel Steele, and his obliviousness proved it. He continued to stare in the pointed direction; whatever The General had spotted approached them at rapid speed. He recognized the fur coat and hat. He recognized the pack on the man’s back.

 _He can’t be coming back,_ Jack inhaled sharply. _The General will get him for sure this way!_ Options scurried and fled, and he realized there was no turning back. Scrooge was on a straight path, glare more determined than angry, and The General huffed annoyedly, raising his palm to alert the perpetrator of his discovery.

“Not so fast you minuscule miscreant,” The General started, and snatched the man’s collar the moment the distance closed. “You will answer to justice!”

“Wow,” Jack murmured. “Real snazzy, sir.”

“Did you catch all that?”

“I did! Harpers is going to pay a mint for this stuff,” he shrugged awkwardly at Scrooge glowering silently in response.

Jack should’ve detected the difference in his demeanor. At a distance his determination boiled on his feathers. There was something odd about his stare, not the glower, not the glare. Nonetheless, Jack’s breath stayed in his lungs when Scrooge rolled out The General’s wrist, and caught his wrist. With strength and speed boggling the logical mind, he swung the muscle dressed man over his shoulder into a puddle of mud.

“Scrooge,” his pencil skidded to the side of the paper, leaving a dark streak where he was completing his e’s loop. “General,” he shouted, running to his employer as Scrooge ran into the rising smoke.

“By George,” The General stood. “That’s one tough, little duck!”

Jack jumped back, confused. “You’re not muddy at all,” he switched to where Scrooge once was, “where could he have gone?”

His question went unanswered. General Steele continued the chase, calmly explaining, “Mr. London, Superintendent Sam Steele of the NWMP does not get muddy! But I continuously capture my felons!” He didn’t look back at Jack when he asked, “Did you catch all that?”

“Oh, yes sir,” Jack answered, catching his hat against the wind. “I got it! I got it all!”

Their pursuit led them around a corner where the doctor’s practice appeared to previously stand, but it was lost in the fire. To their delight, Scrooge wasn’t. He stood there, planning his next step, and General Samuel Steele coughed loudly, getting his attention. By time he turned around, his gun was pointed directly at him.

“Hands up, sir!”

Scrooge glared.

“I say, sir -,” his sentence was disrupted with a sharp snap of a moderately warmed half pole onto his hand. Scrooge smacked him with enough strength to catch him off guard, and again, was out of his reach as he resumed his path. The thin rope connected to the gun and fastened around his neck spun at this upturn of gravity. Around and around, until his face was smothered in rope. It happened so fast his brain was slow to process what was happening until Jack trotted to his side, out of breath.

“This is most unorthodox,” he thought, flabbergasted.

Jack trotted at his side. “Sir, what did you say,” he asked, worry drawn on his youthful features.

“Mr. London, Superintendent Sam Steele of the NWMP does not say yowtch.”

“What was that sir?”

He spat some of the rope from off his mouth, and reiterated, “A Superintendent of the NWMP does not say yowtch!”

“Sasquatch?”

“Yowtch, Mr. London,” he reiterated harshly. “Yowtch!”

“Got it.”

“Make note of it sir,” The General said. “We do not want our successors to make the mistake.”

* * *

Scrooge hurried on. Playing with Sam Steele and Jack London worked cut his time to quarters. He had to make up the difference. He estimated he was about seven buildings away from the saloon, and determined to close the distance as soon as possible, he cut through a free path. He passed an open stable engulfed in flames when he heard the cry.

“Help! Help!”

Still running, Scrooge glanced at the sound, and felt his heart leap to his throat. “Blessed me bagpipes,” he hissed. “Casey!”

“Bless the stars you came back,” he smiled. “Be careful, Scrooge. Those kerosene barrels are gonna give us a plummeting!”

Time was short. He’d worry about the kerosene when it came to it, but he kept a wary eye as he ran to his friend.

The stable’s upper beams had collapsed, and some had, unfortunately, trapped Casey underneath. Scrooge didn’t doubt the sight or the voice. He recognized his friend’s straw hat, miraculously dry, and temporarily supplanted his mission. Crouched at his side, he moved the beams with slight strain, grunting as he pulled them off. He dragged Casey by his collar, ignoring the flames and blistering heat slamming on his face. The smoke couldn’t be ignored. It filled his nostrils, burned his lungs, and tears festered as he dragged Casey to safety with one great heave.

“Can ye’ walk,” bruising formed at his ankles along with several scraps on his upper leg, but Casey grinned shakily, wobbling to sweet patch of clear road.

“Nothing’s broke, I suspect,” he laughed. “You’re a real friend.”

“Thanks, but Ae have ta’ hurry,” he said, about to resume his journey right as a voice called out in a panic.

“General, please,” Jack pled. “I’d like to hear his side, and it may look better on you!”

His pleas were stuffed on the back burner. General Steele marched to the pair, pointing in his regular fashion, “I see you want to add jaywalking to your crimes, McDuck.”

“General, I believe he saved that man’s life,” Jack replied.

“Bah -,” the rest of his intended sentence was blown to pieces. As they conversed and deliberated on what to do next, although Scrooge knew what he wanted, the fire had reached the barrels of kerosene. Their world grew brighter and ever more painful in less than ten seconds.

An explosion skyrocketed above the town, and the people making their desperate escape glanced back in stunned amazement as a tiny, black dot tore off the main puff of fiery smoke. It’s trajectory crashed further than the explosion hit.

For those still standing in the midst of its destruction were buried under rubble and splintered wood. Casey clawed his way out, gripping the planks of wood that housed him under inevitable death. He snatched his hat, now partially charred, and stuffed it back on his head. His ears rung and his vision blurred, but he was able to see. The journalist coughed smoke and was colored similarly; ash painted his pink skin and blue clothes black.

In an adjacent position, the only one to stand, was General Steele.

“Don’t tell me,” Jack coughed. A Superintendent of the NWMP doesn’t get blown up!”

“That is correct, Sir! What he does do is -,”

"I know,” Jacked interjected tiredly. “He ‘darn-tootin’ catches his bad guy.”

“Horrors, London,” paled The General. “If you have me saying that rot in your book, you’ll hear from my barristers!”

Casey clawed back to the clear road. “Where did Scrooge go,” he searched. There was no sign of his friend and rescuer, “Nothing except for his bag.” Casey gripped the straps of the monster, and half-heaved, half-dragged it to where The General and Jack conversed.

“Where’s McDuck?”

“I say,” scoped General Steele. “The explosion must have blown him blocks away and spread the fire across town!”

His observation was accurate. Scrooge had been blown several blocks away, and the fire had spread further. The flames were higher and stronger than ever before, much more than a hose brigade could handle on short notice.

“The town’s going up in flames,” Casey whispered, still clinging to Scrooge’s pack.

As Casey feared the worst, seeing Scrooge was nowhere to be seen, he tightened his hold on his pack straps for reassurance. Staring at the destruction spread on every path, they didn't think it could get any worse, and Casey swallowed, moving towards General Steel when a low drum began rumbling underneath their feet. It started cautiously, as if testing its seismic intensity before pushing forward with relentless quakes that didn't last more than two minutes. 

“What was that,” Casey's teeth clicked, clacked on top of each other. He held his beak to end the clattering.  _"Was it an earthquake?"_

“The boiler,” Jack suggested.

“Across town," Casey countered, reluctantly releasing his beak. “Doesn’t make a lick of sense!”

“Hm.” The General’s frown deepened, and he whistled sharply, “We must find that McDuck.”

“Wait, Colonel,” Casey meekly tapped the man’s sleeve. “I need to talk to you about Scrooge McDuck.”

Colonel Steele turned and glanced down. “Oh, so,” he didn’t attempt to conceal his interest.

“Yes, you need to know the truth, Sir,” Casey started, speaking in a calm rush. “He isn’t what you think,” he sniffled and looked up. Something soft, cold fell on his beak, “Is that snow?”

Colonel Steele and Jack cast their stares upward, and they also felt the love child of winter and early spring. Snowfall arrived silently. It sprinkled on the flames, forcing them to recoil and weaken.

“Hm,” Colonel Steele mused. “It appears the fire brigade has arrived.”

“What kind of fire brigade is this,” Jack asked, mourning the loss of his favorite pencil and notepad.

“A special kind,” Colonel Steele answered. “And you,” he returned to Casey, “what do you have on Scrooge McDuck?”

“Oh!” In all his years in Dawson, he’d never experienced a kinder snowfall. It reminded him of home with his sister and parents, childhood’s winters. Casey wiped his eyes and nodded, exhaling a shaky breath, “Sorry, Sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Apologies aren’t necessary. Their snow has this effect. Now, please, McDuck?”

“Yes, yes,” Casey inhaled sharply, stare hardening as it locked on the renowned champion of justice. “With all due respect sir, it’s come to my attention you’ve got the wrong idea about Scrooge McDuck.”

“Elaborate,” The Colonel commanded.

* * *

He was flying, and then, he was crashing. His landing didn’t break his bones, or crush his organs. On his stomach, he stepped back to the conscious world. His eyes fluttered open, and his vision cleared in seconds. He didn’t realize his pack was no longer strapped on his back, and had he known, its significance wouldn’t have deterred him.

He glanced at the half-collapsed sign hanging above him. He pushed his wrist into the dirt, feet moving without his input.

“The Blackjack Ballroom,” he gasped, head tilting to take in the full sight. Like its contemporaries and business partner, The Aurora Inn, the flames had laid its claim on the famous saloon.

“The Fire is everywhere,” Scrooge rushed in, “If Goldie is still -,” he skidded on his heels. “Ulp!”

He’d seen the shadow. Its voluptuous shape commanded the dancehall floor. He recognized its haughty figure, the arrogance in its lifted beak. Gulping painfully, Scrooge raised his head and faced the menacing flames head one. In a crescent ring, waited the shadow's master.

Goldie glared at him. Head tilted. Beak lifted. Fondness and affection had vacated in her desperate attempt to secure him, waiting along the corners of an exasperated heart, biding their time until their moment had ripen. 

Scrooge glared, hunched forward like an angry child, and wore a scowl deeper than he'd ever known. His fists were rolled in a ready to move position, waiting for him to do something, as if he was going to do something.

But he did nothing, and neither did she. Their silent sneers screamed at the other, pleading for the other to understand their case and submit. 

"You.”

Their patience rewarded, the miner and dancehall girl reunited in the eye of man's inferno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When this started, I knew I had to write this scene. I wanted to convey the power and extremity Don Rosa did the moment Goldie's shadow stretched across the burning floor. I wanted it. Did I accomplish that? I dunno. But darn it, did I try.
> 
> As always, thank you for sticking with me, and remember, feedback is appreciated. I'll see you next chapter!


	12. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion doesn't go as planned, and maybe, it's for the best.

As flames consumed everything in its path, Goldie stood like a pillar in its collapsing center. Arms marked an X on her breasts, and her head tilted defiantly. Her glare glinted with arrogant expectation, dangerous light reflecting within.

Her glare didn’t reflect what lied in her heart. An almost abandoned feature of her mortality, fear murmured deviously in the darkness. Her heart knew the murmur’s cause. The rising conflagration was a concern but did not resonate fear. Her steadied gaze labored on top of his patiently demanding. Her stomach flipped like pancakes, and she straightened her back, rolling her shoulders.

He was the spark. She didn’t want to suspect the length of time this was true. It wasn’t his menacing glare or clenched fists, both which seemed to tremble beneath her, that sent a frightful ripple up her spine. It was the way his hands embraced her, soothing her frantic heart, and the way he looked at her, with stubborn adoration. Her tongue slid over the roof of her mouth, searching for solace in its jagged ridges. Good and sincere, his spirit was a needle in a haystack, an ethereal unicorn running through shadows.

His ignorance relieved and convinced her. A rough goad was required to push him to act first, and she held her arrogance above him, taunting him into action. Still, she wondered whether this ploy succeeded in catching his attention the way she wanted. He stood seven feet away cemented in a defiant gesture. His beak opened partially, and snapped shut, unable to speak.

Her scowl frayed annoyingly. _“Come on Scrooge, you big dope,”_ frustration seeped into her thoughts.

What she didn’t know was an identical sentiment bled into his. _“Come on Scrooge, you big dope,”_ his thoughts raged. _“Move.”_

He wanted to move. He and she knew this. His nerve endings pinched hotly at his stillness, questioning what was keeping him stuck in that singular spot. Goldie questioned him too, quickly scanning her mental notes of what could aid her in this predicament. Swallowing, she found an answer and hesitated, turning her head to the side for an alternate study. Of all sacrifices she made, this was the second to last on her list, and a damning tremor spat in her mouth.

 _“I won’t do it,”_ she blanched at the suggestion. _“You can’t make me. He won’t go for it, anyways._ _I doubt -,”_

 _“No,”_ an intrusive thought leered on its hind legs and cornered her. _“You don’t.”_

Goldie glared. An exhale was a dead give away, so she compromised. Her glare's full force pushed at him with a sharp question. _Why won't you do something?_ Her memories called with an answer.  _“Sometimes,”_ Ma’s voice teased, _“ye’ve gotta make yerself vulnerable. A right little loves ta’ be the hero.”_ Alcohol rolled in her stomach. This was what she had to sacrifice for his attention? All of it hogwash.

Her eyes closed. Her legs grew weak. The back of her wrist touched her forehead, and she fell back, fainting on the stage. The dancehall groaned miserably. The fire had finally began to reach the deeper structures of its architecture. Beams and railing fell apart, crashing in and lost to the flames. _It must be the heat_ , Scrooge gasped, finally pushed to motion. _It must be!_ _I need to get her out of here._ He rushed forward thoughtlessly, unaware the Fire and Hose Brigade were working together. Snowfall accelerated moderately, but this wasn’t enough to dampen the flames. Their reaches were endless. Each time a fire was extinguished, another appeared at a different location.  

The Hose Brigade was outside the burning dancehall. The leader was a tall, barrel chested man whose strength had strained to its limits and more. He held the end of the hose with four other men behind him. He aimed the hose at the entrance and called to the men behind him to turn on the water.

“We’ll have these fires out soon enough,” the leader exclaimed. “The Fire Brigade has done their work with their upstart winter,” he winked. “We gotta do ours.”

“But the hose is frozen,” said the man behind him. “What are we going to do?”

The leader smirked. “Ain’t nothing a whole lotta water pressure can’t fix,” the surge of frozen ice pushed to the opening of the hose. Three solid blocks of ice popped out and went straight into the burning building, propelled in the direction where Scrooge stood.

She heard his gasp. Goldie heard his gasp and the sharp crack of wood breaking underfoot. But he never came. She waited and waited for his sweaty, hot touch pulling her to feet, or strapping her onto his shoulder. He didn’t arrive. She thought something must have knocked him out. Maybe ice. Maybe a rock. She heard ice shattering nearby and assumed that wasn’t correct.

With the fire excelling towards her falsely unconscious body, she cracked open an eye, and her spirits plummeted.

Smoke clamored to the roof, surrounding her in every direction. Good fortune kept the front entrance safe, even as the building was housed down. Her eyes burned and tears flowed heavily past her cheeks. These inconveniences were inconsequential to what she witnessed in front her.

Scrooge hadn’t left. She never thought he did, or assumed. Anger and terror throbbed in his restraints, and he fought against the wires clinging to his arms and legs, binding him in a kneeling position. Goldie knew what she saw; an unidentifiable violet goop had broken from underneath the floorboards. Like a living spiderweb, it captured its prey with disgusting ease, and to Goldie’s horror, its prey this time was Scrooge.

She didn’t think. She rolled off the stage and ran to him, burying her hands into the goop to release. She clawed angrily, tears now a mixture of physical and emotional anguish. Whatever the substance was, it refused to remain gone. What splattered on the floor and stained her fingers regrouped at Scrooge’s wrists, legs, and beak.

“Goldie,” he rasped. Goop solidified around his neck, jerking him back towards the open pit.

“Shut up,” she said, tearing and ripping and ignoring his final warning. Whatever he was going to say didn’t need to be said. “I’m not going to do it,” she gritted.

“Please,” he coughed. Tears of strain and weakness blurred his vision, “Goldie.”

“I won’t do it again,” she growled. “Not this time. Not again.” She screamed at him, stare meet again, “Not you too.”

A beam slammed onto the stage. Goldie stumbled, losing balance, but kept firm on his wrist. Standing upright, she continued her work, more determined than ever. It was as she tugged and fought the substance she realized Scrooge was moving. She didn’t know whether the entity was teasing them or it was Scrooge’s willpower keeping him near, but he fought the hold, exhausted and weary and stubbornly resilient.

His grip labored to Goldie's neck, curling around her pearl necklace. Like tar, it stuck to her feathers. Cold, wet, slimy, but Goldie was lost in the gesture. She didn't tremor in disgust, and pulling back wasn't an option. Not this time. Beak crossed in horrified pout. “Scrooge,” she whimpered, quickly biting back in a dark, pathetic hiss. She looked into his eyes. He looked into his. She cupped his cheeks, sorrow and remorse buried deep in her soul, and she shook her head.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” she exhaled, forehead touching his.

Violet goop covered his beak. Silent screams made their plea, and she heard them. Goldie stepped back, and pearl fell like acid down her chest, an offer to the flames.

His relief never occurred to her as she made her escape. She didn't consider the chance he left this world in resignation as he entered a dreamless sleep, clutching the remains of her necklace. As tears streamed, a combination of smoke and emotional distress, daring rising flames to stop her. Her dancehall was stripped of its colorful ornaments, forced to stand on its skeletal insides. Goldie raised her arm over her nostrils and made it for the door. She gripped her skirts in her other hand, having lost her favorite hair pin in the wreckage. Shoulder length hair was abandoned to fiery elements. Goldie didn’t care. Her drive to live wiped her senses clean, and she stumbled out, collapsing onto freshly driven snow. 

She buried herself into its cool body. She panted her shame and exhaustion, rolling fitfully to extinguish any lingering flames.

“Good glory,” The Hose Brigade leader shouted. “Someone was inside!”

Someone touched her. Many touched her. In fact, numerous hands had clasped her wrists and ankles. Lifted to her feet, she instinctively pushed back. A dark hiss accompanied her kicks and obscenities, capable of embarrassing the burliest sailor. 

“Let me go,” she shouted. “He’s still in there.”

Shout after shout, until her throat was raw and voice cracked she screamed. No one listened. The men dragged her to a nurse sent to administer medical assistance, and she threw a weak punch at them, disregarding any grateful pretense.

“She’s delirious,” the nurse tsked. “I’ll need to sedate her.”

“I don’t need any damn drugs you thoughtless cow,” Goldie snapped, baring her teeth at her. “I need someone to kill the fire. Someone else is in there!”

“The brigades are doing their best,” the nurse explained. She reached into her bag and pulled out a needle, turning to the group standing near, “Please, I require your assistance.”

Again her wrists were pinned, and Goldie struggled. She felt a sharp pain on her upper arm that quickly spread throughout her bloodstream. She heard someone say, “Good, you’ll feel better soon, I promise dear,” caressing her hair. “We need to get her to the medical station.”

“No,” she whispered. “Please, no. He’s still in there.”

But the nurse and men didn’t hear. Speech abandoned her, and she rolled her head to the side as she was laid on the cot, carried off to where medical assistance was administered. Crackling flames engulfed The Blackjack Dancehall, swallowing it hall, and Goldie lied there, unable to do anything about it.

Her money. Her work. Her letters. Goldie rolled away from the sight, _Scrooge..._ and soon, she knew no more.

* * *

She lied in bed, sound asleep. Crickets chirped and other wildlife sung their animalistic songs. It was never quiet around here, and she had learned to sleep through it. Their songs were her lullabies. She changed her position on the bed, curling to the edge. Sharp whispers slunk into her dreams, and she stirred, eyes parting to spot a thin, weak line of light ahead.

“Ye’ cannae think she’s goin’ tae leave, Orla,” spoke someone, firm and hard. Male. “She has responsibilities here.” Goldie pushed on her elbow and stared. She knew this voice; recognizing its disappointed tone and aggravated scowl, she threw her legs over the edge. She crept softly to the door.

A smaller shadow circled the table. “And why not,” a woman replied, “this can be good for us. Goldie has skills tae make it in the world. It’ll be good fer the family.”

“For ye’,” the man mumbled.

“Osheen,” Ma whispered. “Ye’ cannae think Ae’d do it just fer me. Ae love ‘em all.”

“And if we agree tae this, if she agrees tae it, she’ll have a reason to send money home,” Pa’s shadow moved into a sitting position. “And it won’t be fer us, ye’ hear me?”

Goldie sucked in a sharp breath, covering her mouth with her hand. “That isn’t right, Osheen,” Ma paced across the floor. Low creaks quaked under her feet, “We need the money.”

“We need the money, and we’ll take only what we need,” he explained evenly. “But no extravagances,” Goldie felt his warning stare climb over her feathers, “no fancy dresses or shoes. We’ll spend what we need and save the rest.”

“But -,”

“No,” he said. It was the end of the discussion.

Goldie stepped back. It was time to go back to bed. They’d have questions if  they were to discover she was awake, or worse, they’d assume she was trying to sneak out to a party or dance. She curled in her covers, pushing their words and shady flame away, and rolled to the side.

She snuggled under the quilt. Sleep hurried at her, but an uneasy sense told her another presence shared the room with her. Eyes open, she raised her head and searched for something out of the ordinary. Her trunk. A poorly aged dresser. A crib where the babies slept.

Goldie scrambled out of bed, forgetting her parents discussion and her need for silence. Moonlight cradled its glow over head as she raced to the cribs.

“Where,” she gripped their shared blanket off and whipped her head around, frantic. “Where -,”

She was hushed. Goldie paused, holding the blanket in a loose grip, and tilted her head in the room’s right corner where Ma’s favorite rocking chair was nestled. It wasn’t Ms in the chair.

“Now, now,” the voice cooed, “poor wee bairn. Let’s not disturb yer family. After all, ye ask so much of them already. Take and take is all ye do, isn’t it?”

Goldie stepped backward, shaking her head in denial. She didn’t question the figure bathed in darkness. She knew who it was, but why and most importantly, how? Fear bloomed in her heart, revealing a small blood prepared to spread its essence throughout her system. She curled her fists, using the blanket as an anchor.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she quivered. “You...you…,”

He didn’t stop rocking. “Oh?” It spoke without an ounce of mockery, “Ae belong wherever you are, but it doesn’t seem to work out for me, does it?” He gazed down at the small bundle resting in the crook of his arm, “Or ye? Does it? Always left behind, for something greater, better.”

“That isn’t true.” Goldie buried her beak into the blanket, shaking her head and fighting off tears. “You...you were different,” she whispered. “You’re Scrooge McDuck.”

“Ha,” the shade replied. “Ye’re a woman grown, Goldie, ye should know better.” His sharp reprimand didn’t soften as he soothed the babe in his arm, “Shouldn’t she, the poor thing.”

“I did it for my family,” she said through gritted teeth. Lowering the blanket, she glared at the shade and it’s pointed silence, “You of all people should know that!”

The rocking chair didn’t move any faster than it already was, but moonlight wanted her to see more than she wanted. A hand appeared on the chair’s arm, and Goldie felt a sickening tremor assault her stomach. She inhaled, failing miserably to push off crawling horror and disgust. 

Anyone would identify the thing as a hand, but the flame had charred it to meat. White feathers were burnt to ash, leaving blackened flesh rolled in crusted reds. As the rocking continued, the rest of its misshapen form revealed it’s true nature under the moon’s gaze. His feathers had been plucked and burnt on every patch of visible skin. He was bald. One eye was swollen shut, a consequence of his descent. Visible cracks lined his beak, marring it beyond repair. She was sure it shouldn't be attached to his face at this point, in its condition.

A biting, pained grimace lined his beak. Goldie whimpered, shoulders trembling.

“I tried to save you,” she tried to say.

The shade -  not Scrooge, laughed, “Are ye’ sure about that, love? No one can stop ye’ from getting my nugget.”

“No...no…,” she turned her back to the shade. No. Scrooge wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, and not because of a false, childish hope. Something else had taken him, another entity far stronger than fire’s touch, but as hard as she tried to convince herself, it didn’t feel enough.

“You said you’d come back,” someone pushed her back, and the blanket was snatched from her hold. You lied.”

Goldie spun around where something heavy was shoved into her arms. She blinked confusedly, staring down at the shade previously held. She pushed the blanket back. Gold. Solid gold. Gold in shape of a pretty doll, heavy in her arms.

"I...it's...it's beautiful," she whispered.

"Aye, we could've had it all," the shade mused. "But ye'll never be satisfied." His burning glare fell on her, "Ye never are."

The gold statue babbled, and Goldie swallowed a gasp. An obscure murky green and smoky amber stared back at her. Her heart frosted over ten times, and she extended her arms to the shade, whose expression remained unmoved. 

"You promised you'd come back," the golden statue babbled. "You lied."

"I'm sorry," she looked away. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

Blank disappointment met her gesture. He took the statue into his arms. When he shook his head, ashes toppled off his scalp, and wet pieces of meat. "It's a shame, lassie," he cupped the statue, "you are worth more than gold, more than all the money in the world. 

"You don't understand," she mumbled, too tired to put up a true argument. "You'd never understand."

"Maybe," he bundled the statue up. "But who knows? Nothing gold can stay, not when Goldie O'Gilt is near," and with one sharp push, he took her breath away. Goldie fell backwards, understanding in a single instance what had happened. Her fingers unfolded, reaching for the surface, and she saw the shade's hollow stare looking down at her as the abyss swallowed her whole. His anger and disappointment camouflaged each other. Her open mouth made no noise, not even the faintest gasp. Glimmering darkness devoured her in a single bite. No one heard. No one cared. 

A fitting end, melded with gold. 

* * *

A jolt awakened her. Wheels creaked as they rolled. Soft footsteps brushed against the floor. Goldie gulped, eyes rolling with abandon, and tried to push forward, feeling a flash of pain scurry up her arms. Her head fell on a pillow, ceiling blurring and spinning. She rubbed her temples.

"Yeah, wouldn't have done that if I were you," someone munched to her right. With minimal effort, she looked to her side and saw a slim, grey rabbit munching on a carrot. He snuggled under a quilt while a mischievous gleam sparkled in his eye. He tipped it casually at her, grinning ear to ear, "Welcome back ta' the living, toots."

"To the living?" 

He pointed his half-eaten carrot to the window. Goldie followed its trail and dragged herself out of bed. Ignoring the bland night gown she was dressed in, she trudged to the window, and tippy toed to see through. Opening the window, a lump solidified in her throat.

Crisp, spring air carried the scent of rotting, burnt wood throughout the town. Ahead, Dawson stood, but fire had eroded its essence. Buildings lied on top of buildings, most crumbled to ash. Workers of all ages moved sluggishly as they deposited trash and tore down remaining walls barely clinging to life. The skies were a darkened, wet grey, signifying incoming rain.

"A real shame," the hare chewed the carrot to its stem. "Greatest fire in the town's history. Hope the doc's keepin' up with the numbers."

"Numbers," she turned. 

"Yeah," he hiked up a knee, burrowing his deep, hollow eyes into her forehead. "People died, you know? A fire's a fire, smoke and blazes." He stretched, "Gotta call my moms and pops back up in Brooklyn. Let 'em know I'm okay."

"Explains the accent."

"What?"

"Nothing," Goldie returned to the sober disarray.

His voice and touch haunted her. His disappointed savaged her deeper than his anger. Unable to hold her gaze, she looked away, holding her breath. Stepping back, she sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at her bandaged arms, and felt cool air passing over her naked shoulders. Goldie frowned. She ran her fingers through her long locks and realized there were none. She touched her head, patting down and testing its length, and with shuddering realization, realized her curls were no more. Cut right below her ear. There was nothing when she shook her head, just unevenly chopped sides. She wiped her face, another set of tears burned her eyes, and her lungs expanded as she released a coiled breath.

"Okay," she said. "I'm not dead. That's a positive."

But with her bruised body, burnt arms and hands, chopped hair, destroyed dance hall, and her love, currently missing and buried beneath the rubble, the exchange appeared laughable. 

She sat and waited and stared, and emptied what surged from her stomach onto the floor.

"Yeesh," the rabbit winced. "Clean up on aisle three."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've seen, she's hit a low point. A really low point. At least she isn't alone, she'll need the company. The lower half was different than what I imagined. I knew there was going to be a dream sequence, but not so...horrifying. Had fun writing it. Sorry Goldie.
> 
> This story has taken a turn. A big turn I didn't anticipate when I started writing. It's pretty fun watching your story develop and evolve. As always, thank you for your continued support. I can't stress it enough - feedback is greatly appreciated.


	13. Wabid Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters may get longer as the story progresses. I understand this chapter is flat compared to the previous chapters, but it's necessary to push us from point C to point E.

“You should be relieved,” the nurse said, administering the doctor’s orders. “If the severe burning or crumbling saloon didn’t kill you, the excessive smoke inhalation definitely would’ve done the trick.”

Goldie’s flat stare said little, and the woman saw this as approval to continue. “Fortunately, the burns and exhaustion won't effect your health extensively. You will need rest and ointment," setting the stethoscope aside, “the doctor will approve your discharge soon, and I think I can salvage some ointments and bandages for your burns.”

She glanced at the cot next to her, mysteriously empty. “Where’s the other guy,” she croaked. The nurse turned in the direction, tilting her head to the side. The quilt on its surface was neatly folded, showing no signs a patient had rested in it.

“Hm,” the nurse pulled out a thermometer. “Open your mouth.” A short glare at the object and Goldie complied. She was in no mood to protest. “Hm, good girl,” she pulled it out and read the numbers, “your temperature is normal. I’ll report this to the doctor.” Goldie watched her scuttle off in her white nurse dress that matched her black and white feathers.

“You’re an ass,” she said. “You know that right?”

“Eh, people usually call me a stinker,” the grey rabbit reappeared, snuggling into his cot as if he had never left it. An easy, lighthearted grin broadened his muzzle. He nestled his hands on the side of his head, a makeshift pillow on top of his actual pillow. “But an ass can work in this instance.”

“Am I dying,” she wheezed. “Am I the only one who can see you?”

“Nah, don’t like the attention.” He grinned cheekily, “Folks don’t take to rabbits kindly here.”

“So you say,” everything blurred in and out of focus. She wanted to blame her exhaustion, but she knew the medication she’d been administered had stunted her senses. “Rabbits,” her beak popped testily. “Rabbits, rabbits, don’t have a lot of rabbits here. There was Nieves, the Snow Drifter. She ran off years ago."

“And you wonder why,” he asked.

“Well, yeah, there was this guy -,” she groaned. “Ugh, yeah, we don’t need to get into it.” What seemed a mystery years ago came together all too clearly now. “I’ll...I doubt I can pay her back for that, but she got his money at the end. Besides, we've got Tricky Trixie, and she's a surprisingly great replacement."

“Hare or rabbit?"

“Does it matter?” She threw a lazy hand in the air, “Aren’t you all the same?”

“That’s specist, doc,” the rabbit drawled. “Have you seen a hare, up and close? Large, massive things. Half hare on my ma’s side.” He turned his back on her.

“Hey, wait, I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I really am. I mean...I get it, and I don’t...but I get how people can be.”

An ear perked, “Do you?” A dark eye peeked over a bony shoulder, grazing lazily over her spine and the steep curve of her stomach, “Tell me about yourself, Miss O’Gilt.”

Goldie gathered enough energy to scowl. She huffed tiredly, “Ain’t much to say.” Her attention diverted to the window where blackbirds roamed the skies. “I ruined everything, and I…,” she closed her eyes and exhaled. Self-pity was useless in the best of times. Goldie O’Gilt didn’t wallow in self-pity; she rolled up her skirts and got to work. Except for today.

Today, she was tired. Today, she was heartbroken. She was empty and fractured and sick and exhausted, today, and wanted to curl up in a ball. Not to die. No. Never so far, but certainly, not to live either. The fire in her soul had gone up in smoke.

“That bad,” the rabbit guessed. “I don’t want to be _that_ guy, but it can always be worse.”

Goldie almost barked the traditional response. She closed her mouth and glared at him. “I know,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Not dying is a start.”

“Yes,” she grumbled. “I suppose it is.”

“And y’said he wasn’t dead, didn’t you?” The rabbit suggested, “At the saloon?”

She glared, suspicions sharpened. He shouldn't have known that, but Goldie suspected there was more to this rabbit than meet’s the eye. “Yes, yes, I did,” she answered, reluctantly. “I said he was in there. Something…,” the visuals sprang to life in the forefront of her memory. Fire swarmed at her. His glared at her to run. She shook her head, nauseated, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she whispered. “I still don’t believe it.”

 _How could she_ , she asked herself. Goldie had faced bank robbers and shady loan sharks and other criminals masterminds, and no matter their monikers and body counts, they all found themselves kissing Glittering Goldie’s heel. But this, her fingers dug into her temples, was different. What had taken Scrooge wasn’t human. Its flesh was liquid and slime, far from blood and bone, and though her efforts at the time had been valiant for someone like her, their results produced bitter ends.

The rabbit’s dark eyed stare traced lazily for answers. “You can try,” he offered gently. “I’ve heard a lot worse. Years ago I had this traveling partner - a duck, a black duck, and uh...gotta say, he broke all kinds of weirdness barriers.” On his back, he spread his gloved hands in the air. “Craziest thing I’d ever seen, able to pull a mallet right over his shoulder, but uh...didn’t see the anvil coming above,” he chuckled at the memory, sounding like an old man.

The rabbit didn’t appear old. His grey fur wasn’t frayed or wrinkled, and held an appropriate glossy sheen. Goldie hadn't thought to question his age until now. She pushed up on the pillow, folding her hands on her lap.

“You seem to know more than you want me to know,” she said, grimly. Hands folded on her lap, she presented an air of professionalism known to customers and strangers alike. “And I suspect there’s more you don’t want me to know.”

“Now, toots -,”

“Goldie,” she corrected, icily. “But you may call me Miss O’Gilt.”

“Ah, we’re on a last name basis,” he shrugged. He crossed one long leg over a bony knee and smacked his lips, “This world's bigger than you think. Far bigger than anyone else, and it’s connected - tied, to other worlds.”

“What are you going on about,” she frowned. “This world is only this world.”

“Sure, lets go with that, but do you think mankind was the only things around? We’ve got animals - woolly elephants and sharp tooth reptiles, but whatever's making 'em ain't a dullard. They're creative folk. Look at what's on top of here, and think about what's below." He sighed, “We came along with our fire and tools and built on top their foundations. The people who revered them and respected them had their lands stolen, families ripped apart,” a terrible truth flattened between them.

Goldie’s fingers twitched, “Isn’t Steele supposed to help with that? First Nations...they’ve gotten better relationships, don’t they?”

“But what about elsewhere,” the rabbit countered, calmly. “Other folks ain’t so understandin’ or kind, lighting up school house, takin’ kids from their homes to assimilate them.”

Goldie paled. _No,_ she returned to her mother's letter.She bit her cheek to stifle her inner scream,  _This isn’t the time_. “What’s your point, drifter,” she hissed, green eyes flashing red. “I don’t have time to waste on your stupid stories!”

The rabbit laughed. A genuine, full laugh. Something about her anger amused him. He slapped his knee, “Alright, alright, listen,” he sniffed, “all I’m saying is that in these parts the land is alive, some of it is cursed, but mostly alive. Whatever is lying about underneath the frost is ready to take back what’s their's. Your miner? Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

 _In the wrong place_ , her teeth pierced her cheek’s skin, _at the wrong time._ Of course. She was at fault for this; she had pushed him to come to her. It was the only way to get him even close to admitting his feelings for her, and now, now, the memory was burned into her skull. His fear. His desperation. _You wanted me to leave,_ she covered her eyes, shoulders trembling. _You wanted me to leave, didn’t you? But now, what am I to do?”_

“He ain’t gone for sure, is he?”

Goldie raised her head, blankly. “What?”

“I mean, you said he was alive,” he repeated, cautiously. “Can’t say you don’t have a lead.”

She stared at the long-eared drifter. Slowly, as she steadied her heart and soothed her wounds, she laid the groundwork to a plan. _A lead_ , she had that. She touched her breasts, recalling the sharp, crinkly pressure that previously resided there. “I know exactly where to start,” she threw the quilt off.

“Cool,” the rabbit reclined. “Hope you find him,” he smacked his lips. “For now, I’ll take a sweet nap.”

A hand on her ribs, she hobbled to the door. It’s cool frame stung her palm, and she sucked a quivering breath. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the empty cot. The quilt was folded neatly, and the pillow lied flat.

“Damn rabbit,” she scowled.

* * *

Goldie knew patience was a requirement for her next task, and she didn’t play ignorant as to why.

“She claimed there was another person in the room with her,” the nurse stood rigidly next to the doctor. “I believe we may have sedated her too heavily. St. Olga’s will be happy to have her committed.”

“Committed?” Goldie raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I understand your recommendation,” she said professionally, kindly even, “But that won’t be necessary.”

“You said -,” the nurse started.

“I know what I said,” she finished, patiently. “I had recently awoken from a traumatic experience and was reliving it, and now, I am okay. I am okay. I saw something that was obviously not there, and I would like to be discharged.”

The doctor and nurse exchanged a secretive stare. Goldie reasoned she wasn’t trusted to read into it.

A portly man, less warm and generous than Winterbeard, he entwined his fingers on the desk. “Now, Miss O’Gilt,” he said, “you’ve experienced a very serious thing. Hysteria in women at your age isn’t unheard of. A stay at the asylum may help you.”

“Oh yes, a stay at the bedlam house,” Goldie retorted, and nearly chuckled at the nurse’s frazzled response.

“You listen here, you hussy,” the nurse replied coolly. “The Doctor takes my suggestions seriously, and someone of your caliber,” she sniffed in disgust, “just think, it was best that the saloon did burn down. Nothing of importance was lost.”

Anger crackled in her heart. Goldie twisted the drab gown and bit down on her tongue. Swallowing her blistered retort, she examined their unusual proximity. She was back straight and stern. He hunched forward, wedding band  gleaming in dry sunlight. Goldie smiled, and nodded, “You’re right. Nothing of importance was lost.”

She didn’t think of her money, fake jewelry, and memories. Best to abandon them where they lay, and they didn’t need to know. She doubted they’d even understand.

“And fortunately, assuming everything was destroyed that means our guest books were lost too.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “I say,” his neck flab reddened and trembled, “what a horrid suggestion! I’d never set foot in an establishment like yours.”

Nurse Adelie gently gripped his shoulder. “Hiram, please,” she murmured, dark eyelashes fluttering. “Don’t stress so.”

Goldie smirked. “Of course,” she shrugged. “Forgive me for suggesting such a crude idea, but certainly, you’d understand my concern. You see, I know who I am. I am a performer, and my saloon brought entertainment and pleasure to the masses, regardless of your values.”

“Your point,” Nurse Adelie snapped.

“You are a nurse,” Goldie gestured. “And you are a doctor, and I believe many would be interested in knowing more about your professional relationship.”

There it was, her moment of triumph. Color drained off their feathers, and Nurse Adelie stepped back.

“You can’t prove anything,” she sputtered, darkly. “Hiram, tell her.”

“She’s right,” under a sudden coolness, the doctor replied. “But I don’t think that’s what Miss O’Gilt is going for.”

Goldie smirked. “Sharp man,” she complimented.

“If I were to send you to St. Olga’s, a rumor may blossom,” sausage fingers tapped contemplatively, “involving two of us, or three, and what will the truth matter?”

“As long as you get them to believe,” Goldie sang. “And you know I’m better than the best at swaying men’s hearts.”

Dr. Billywhiskers leaned back in his chair, and sighed. His gray beard turned white. “Give the women what she needs,” he said, briskly. “I want to be done of this matter. Others require treatment.”

“Hiram, you can’t -,”

“Enough, Adelie,” his iron clipped answer silenced her protests. She looked at him in alarm. “Do as she says,” setting his stricken gaze over Goldie’s head, he strode out the room, “and the let this be the end of the matter.”

Nurse Adelie stumbled for words, but her shaken response melted under an unfathomable mask. Goldie rested her beak on her fist, smirking brightly at the formidable nurse.

"If it makes you feel better,” Goldie said, “he’s doing it for both of you. His reputation would recover, but yours?” She feigned pain at the idea, “The scandal would chase you for generations.”

“Enough of you,” she stomped ahead, head held high. “There’s work to be done.”

Goldie’s satisfaction nipped at Nurse Adelie’s heels, and she slithered off the chair in a moment’s time, just to bask in the comfort of her small victory.

She didn’t waste more time than necessary in the storage closet that alternated as the medical facility’s inventory. She found a pack on the side and filled it with essentials; bandages, burn ointment, and other things she thought would be useful. Food, she grimaced, will come later. I’ll have to see if Winterbeard’s has anything to spare. Nurse Adelie’s vigil was sharpened to ridiculous precision, reminiscent to grade school teachers, but Goldie was unconcerned.

She picked what she needed. She passed what she didn’t. When her pack was full, she thumbed through discarded clothes. Most of the clothes in the bin stunk to high heaven, and Goldie gagged, stomach churning.

“You should be ashamed,” she griped, “this should’ve been thrown out months ago.”

“The patient insists to keep it,” Nurse Adelie said, calmly. “The outfit belonged to his father.”

“By time he gets it back, I’m sure the moths won’t even want it.”

But with some patience and a sharp eye, she found what she needed. A simple blouse, a pair of pants, and sturdy boots that didn’t smell as if a fungus had taken root. She checked, and with a resigned sigh, she slipped them on, relieved the fit wasn’t too snug.

“Great doing business with you,” Goldie opened her palm.

Nurse Adelie glared. “You may leave now,” she said.

“Oh, come on,” she grinned, “it isn’t like he’s going to leave his wife for you.”

“I am well aware of the fact,” head held high, her pointy beak flaunted its superiority. “And I would never ask that of him. We are happy with the arrangement.”

Goldie clicked her tongue. She could understand that, even accept it even if it wasn’t what the rigid nurse wanted to hear. “Well, if I were you, and I’m really glad I’m not,” the pack’s straps dug into her tender skin, and an explosion of pain bloomed, “I’d keep some bitterwater on the side, just in case.”

Her cheeks paled and reddened similar to a pink rose, but there was no beauty in this act, no glory. “I am a practitioner of medicine,” her anger had festered into what appeared to be bitter resignation, and she averted her attention to the empty hall, “I know what to do in trying times.” Goldie’s penetrative stare did more than she knew at the time, but the uncomfortable silence settled in their middle told her more than she wanted to know.

“Good,” she coughed, dismissively. “A woman of your reputation should know what happens when a gal gets into trouble,” finishing the loop on the second boot, she walked passed her without sparing a second glance. Nurse Adelie did the same.

She marched down the hall, glare discouraging any potential questions, and pushed through the door, knowing where her feet were going to take her next.

* * *

Goldie opted out of going to Winterbeard's. She didn't want to be disappointed if the place had burnt to the ground, and as wise as it was to check, she didn't feel like being wise right now. A hunger deeper than she’d ever known was hung in her soul, and she was determined to satisfy it.

The BlackJack Saloon wept her name, and she chased its call. She trekked down the dirt path; gone was its familiar red skin, now painted in black ash. It mushed and crinkled beneath her boots. She hunched her back forward, glare and grimace tighter than it’s ever been. No one capable of recognizing her stricken blonde hair approached her; they rolled their sleeves, clutched their skirts, and carried on with their business, salvaging bleak remains of their former lives.

Goldie was no different from the rest of them. The barrier separating them had shattered, and the sensation was palpable. She trotted slowly to where the saloon formerly stood. She clenched the straps, burying whatever expectations she had for what she was about to see.

Ahead was the saloon. Its ceiling had partially caved in, but the primary structured stood. Her heart skipped a beat. She tightened her grip and moved on. Whispers began to swirl in broad strokes around her; assumptions and suspicions burying in her soul.

The steps creaked underfoot, stubbornly intact. Goldie felt her heart stammer, and she swallowed thickly, moving ahead when she heard an anxious cloud of disquiet beyond the doors. She sneered, curious to know who inhabited her saloon, no matter its apparent destruction. A sneaky play wasn’t necessary, she crept to the side, peaking through the slim ends. Not a debt collector, loan shark, or government official, she watched, wait, a second. She straightened her view. I know those boots.

She knew the boots, the clothes, and the impeccable posture. General Steele, Goldie growled, abandoning caution as she pushed through the doors. Four heads turned to her, brows raised and expressions curious.

General Steele’s moustache twitched irritably. “The Rabbit was right,” he observed, sending a bleak stare to his boots. “The rascal.”

“Wascal,” Jack asked.

“Rascal, Mr. London.”

“What are you doing here,” she barked at them, using hot air to raise her chest. “It could’ve burnt straight to Hell itself, but the Blakcjack is still mine.” She crosses her arms, tapping her foot impatiently at the three men.

“Miss O’Gilt, what happened here is no short of a tragedy,” General Steele said, “but we are currently investigating a serious matter.”

“I didn’t start the fire.”

“No,” a shadow masked his expression. “But this is no place for a lady. I apologize for your loss, but we will take control of the matter.”

Goldie nodded, “I understand.” She addressed each of them, converting her acceptance in a single glance, and she returned to Steele. “And I hope you understand,” she reeled back as far as she could, and with surprising swiftness, struck her fist into the good general’s abdomen.

“Gaugh,” spit caught onto his moustache as he fell on his knees, arms wrapped around his abdomen.

“General,” Jack ran to his side.

Casey scratched his neck. “Guess that’s one way to get your point across, but I’m sure that’s a felony.”

“Ain’t worse than lying to public over what happened to Scrooge McDuck,” Goldie pointed to the home the men surrounded. “I was here that night, you know, and I watched whatever that thing was drag him down. And I come back here just to have you kick me out?” Hands on her hips, she roared a hoarse, aching laugh, “I don’t think so, Steele. If you’re coming with me, great. If not, that’s fine too.”

“You can’t,” the General spat pitifully. His unbreakable disposition had foundered at last, and he weakly pulled himself back together. “Not without assistance,” standing, he wiped his spittle with a handkerchief, “check the hole, it goes beneath the saloon, deeper in the earth’s crust.”

Goldie followed his finger and saw the tunnel burrowed through the floor, pass the basement. “But how,” palms on her knees, she saw the expanding wildness beneath their feet. “Should just be...dirt,” her attention tore through tunnels of dirt. “It’s hollow.” An accurate observation as wood and dirt was parted in even cloves, producing multiple tunnels visible from their standpoint.

“This is not nature’s work,” General Steele coughed. “It is not the work of a badger or a mole, as my informant says.”

“Or a rabbit,” Goldie passed a wry look.

Annoyance shone behind General Steele’s monocle, but his speech conveyed none of it.

“What are we going to do,” Casey gulped. “It’s far down there, and we don’t know where this thing has taken Scrooge.”

“I’ll lead an expert team,” General Steele commanded. “I already have five great men chosen for this expedition. We suspect the freshest tunnel is to the left, a potential lead to this deviant’s lair.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I cannot fathom.”

Goldie glared, stepping back from the hole. “It was liquid. Sticky. It’s cuttable, but it won’t stay that way for long,” shaking her head, “and it’s alive. It wanted him.” She didn’t ask why it didn’t want her at the same time. It’s strength was undeniable, and she suspected she didn’t way more than Scrooge. But the thoughts hurt her head, and she faced the general. “When are we leaving?”

“Today, noon.” He checked his pocket watch, “My team is on their way with supplies.”

“And what do you plan to do when we get there?” Casey and Jack sent her worried stares, and she ignored them. Incessant questions saved lives, “You don’t know what we’re dealing with? Do you?” He looked away. Goldie growled, “It’s your job to kill the thing. It’s my job to save Scrooge.”

A combative silence pushed against them. Jack and Casey cast jittery stares on the pair, feet shuffled and breaths were held. General Steele didn’t take to the bait, and nodded stiffly, “I understand, Miss O’Gilt.”

Galloping hooves behind swung their attention. General Steele stiffened and headed in the direction. “It must be my team,” he said. “As expected, their timeliness is commendable.”

Jack pressed his head to his skull as he followed.

Goldie waited, glaring at the monstrous hole. It was larger than she remembered with all its choppy, splintered sides appearing like spinal teeth rather than wood. Hard as it was to believe, Scrooge was down there somewhere. A selfish believed wanted to hold that he was strong enough to get out of it on his own, without her assistance, but every time she closed her eyes, there were his staring back at her. They begged her to run.

It’d been a long time since Goldie didn’t want to run, and even longer since she wanted to run back.

But for Scrooge, she’d come to realize, she was willing to do the stupidest acts of bravery. Or selflessness, it was all the same to her.

It hit her uncomfortably. She looked aside and saw him standing there, gripping a bag that was three sizes too big for his scrawny back. “Coot,” she greeted.

He kicked a stray pearl. His stringy mane swept upward under his straw hat.

“Miss O’Gilt,” he waved, an awkward smile to seal the deal.

Goldie had belonged to worse teams - incompetent and dumb were a perfect scramble, but these memories didn't stop her from flopping down on the weakened floorboards to fist her wrists into her eyelids, releasing a muffled scream that sent peering birds flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you catch the references, I assure you Goldie wasn't hallucinating. I've always wanted their worlds to connect despite the massive differences in style, humor, and characterization. Believe me when I say, this part wasn't originally planned. After I finished the previous chapter, he was there. He was eating his carrot, and I went, "Okay, I guess this is happening." I can't say no to the rabbit. He was my favorite growing up, no offense ducks.
> 
> I am of the belief - sorry, Don Rosa, that this rabbit can outwit and probably has outwitted Scrooge, and when Scrooge outwits him? He doesn't take it as personally.
> 
> We don't know if Goldie hasn't encountered the supernatural at this point with Scrooge. Maybe she has. Maybe she hasn't. I'm going to guess she has in smaller capacities that can be easily dismissed or explained off. In conjunction to their "backstory" romance, this story represents Goldie's first supernatural encounter where she discovers the dangers waiting for her on this path. 
> 
> We know she doesn't stop. She started a dimensional war. Demogorona War. Can you believe that?
> 
> Author corner completed. As always, thank you so much, and feedback is much appreciated!


	14. Enter Midnight

When the mounties arrived their essentials were secured on their backs, an expectation everyone knew they’d meet. Their grave expressions read they had a strong grasp of this mission, as though they’d been told a nightmarish fairy tale. Deliberation was a redundant part of the planning process, but the men insisted for one final regroup to evaluate their situation. 

Standing adjacent to the ominous hole they were prepared to enter, the mounties clung to General Steele’s every word.

But not Goldie. As the men wallowed in their commander’s foreboding warnings and flimsy promises, Goldie leaned on the wall. She didn’t know what was worse, listening to his misleading disquisition or working with him for mutual benefits. But her impatience didn’t supersede caution. The terror lurking below exceeded any power their imagination was able to conjure; she was of the belief its entrapment abilities didn't lie solely on its sticky limbs. She preferred not to think about what else lied in its arsenal.

She conceded a rallying speech encouraged some semblance of confidence for when the moment arrived, but this didn’t stop Goldie from waiting on the outside of the circle, peering out of a broken window.

“And Elvira, you ought to know I am going on a very, very dangerous mission,” Casey mumbled to the side. Hunched over a table, he scribbled on a sheet of paper using a stubby pencil. “I don’t know if I’ll come back alive, but if I do, and I like to think I will, I’ll send the kids some tasty treats! Or whatever we find down there. General Steele thinks there’s a lot going down there we won’t know about until we find it.”

Goldie faced the duck, doing her best to hide her incredulity. It couldn’t be that he intended to mail a letter right before joining a life threatening mission? But it was so. Casey raised his sheet proudly, and smacked his lips with satisfaction. Folding the paper and slipping it into an envelope that was mildly besmirched, he noticed Goldie’s attention and chuckled.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he waved. “Just gonna send this off to my sister back home.”

“You do know we’re about to leave, right?”

“What?” He looked at the envelope, “Already got my stamp, and the postman is making her run.”

“I mean,” Goldie stressed, “you are going to send a letter to your family about this insanity?”

Casey stared blankly. “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged. “Seeing there’s a higher chance of death on this expedition, it’ll comfort my sister’s heart in case I do expire, and besides,” a warm smile crinkled his feathers, “it does a better job at calming me than General Steele over there.”

At a loss of words, Goldie fidgeted. She didn’t have a counter for that. As disgustingly sentimental his decision was, the reasoning was perfect. She rolled her shoulders, scoffing, looking away as she tried to dumb down her feelings, but she returned to him, wary.

He dug through his pack. “Got extra if you want,” he offered.

Goldie recoiled, grimacing tightly, but she couldn’t deny the appeal the offer held. With a scowl, she swiped the pencil and paper away, setting it on the table. She ignored his warm glow as she fought for written dominance. He didn’t look over to see what she’d written, standing to wait outside for the postwoman.

She found it easier to write now. All her emotional barriers had fallen in the wake of the fire, leaving her raw. She knew what she wanted to say, what she should’ve said since the beginning but never found the time.

And this was a comforting lie. Time wiggled in her palm like a phantom shape, as though it was replenishable when she knew this was an illusion aimed to comfort. 

Goldie gulped and scratched her heart onto paper. There were no tears, though she suspected the reader may feel the urge to do so, or maybe, Goldie thought wryly, they'd tear this letter up in disgust. Despite her best efforts, everything had fallen apart, and no amount of _I'm sorry_ was strong enough to glue the broken pieces together. Her sentiments were contrite, brief, and most importantly, to the point. For her family's unity, to preserve their sanity, she often dragged events and emotions. It shortened their worries and criticisms. Sweet, simple, and ridiculously layered, Goldie’s satisfaction troubled her. This didn’t stop her from folding and sealing the letter in the envelope.

Casey waited at the entrance, waving ahead as the postwoman approached.

“Thanks,” she grumbled.

“Ya’ think your family will like the letter?”

“No,” she licked the stamp, flattening it on its upper right corner. “I bet it’ll scandalize them,” a flat grin mocked his surprise. “And that’s what I’m aiming for. They’ll get over it.”

Snow lessened the humidity. It was a comfortable crisp yet warm temperature, and Goldie inhaled, vigor renewed. Down the way the post woman rode a bike that bobbled over debris, and she slowed in front the building, using one large foot as a break.

“Get yer mail, or ye’ can give me your mail, and I’ll send it off,” the postwoman chuckled.

Goldie squinted. “Trixie?” She shook her head and focused. _No,_ she chortled. _No_ , it can’t. But it was, or she was sure it was. Casey laughed awkwardly alongside her, ignorant of what they were laughing at. She didn’t have the patience to explain.

A slender rabbit, Trixie wore sturdy, brown boots; her wide brimmed hat protected her silver fur from the sun’s rays. She hiked up her skirts and bounced on the steps.

“We can send mail, can’t we?” Casey’s want slobbered on the envelope, “My sister may need this in trying times.” He relinquished it with more reluctance than he expected.

Trixie tilted her head to the side, smiling. “Don’t worry, honey,” she patted his shoulder, “this is going off as soon as I finish my rounds. A lot of folks are sending for money and other things. So much was lost in the fire.”

Without realizing it, Goldie touched her neck, as if she’d find her locket where it should’ve been. “Here, you go,” she slipped the envelope into the postwoman’s bag, “make sure it gets where it needs to go.” She discreetly leaned on Trixie’s shoulder, smirk disarming Casey and other observers, but she and Trixie knew better.

“We’re going to need more than a postwoman to help us out, y’here,” venom slithered on her tongue, and she assumed it festered in her gaze.

The rabbit chuckled. “Y’know you could always ask nicely,” she said charmingly, with a grin that rivaled Goldie’s. “And besides, rabbits ain’t really welcomed here. Don’t have long to stay, but sure...I’ll do what I can.”

Goldie stepped back, and nodded.

Casey waved the postwoman off, shouting for her to be careful. Goldie didn’t see the point in correcting him, and she turned to the entrance where Jack waited for them.

“They’re ready.”

* * *

The hole went through the initial flooring and traveled down to the basement. Goldie discovered her first role was an acting guide. While the steps weren’t another casualty to the fire, they took their time going down them, and with the collapsed ceiling, the abundance of light accommodated their downward journey.

Goldie guided them to the basement. They were fortunate the steps weren’t another casualty to the fire. With the collapsed ceiling, there was more than enough light to accommodate them on their downward journey.

The cellar was untouched. Ash and dust blanketed the shelves and barrels aligning the walls.

“Miss O’Gilt,” General Steele inspected one of the barrels, “this is an impressive inventory you have acquired.”

She didn’t respond, studying the remarkable hole on her cellar’s floor. She and the others were able to see clearly than they did high above. What they thought were tunnels was just the one, propelling into wet darkness. She accepted what they’d seen earlier was the massacre of what transpired under the floor without her notice. _How long,_ she grimaced, _has this thing been here?_

Her question went unanswered. General Steele stepped forward and raised a hand. “Charles, Mr. London, Mr. Coot, Miss O’Gilt, and I will descend.” He kneeled and pointed to the hole’s sides, “Entrails of the beast.” He slipped his finger along the inner wall, and Goldie heard the collective gasps as they stepped back in disgust. “What we’re dealing with is not human,” he said.

“I could’ve told you that,” Goldie retorted. “What about the other dopes,” she motioned over her shoulder, “if it’s just the five of us, what are they doing here?”

“Frederick, Matthew, and Barnaby are to patrol the area, to ensure no one enters until we have returned,” he answered diplomatically. “The rest of my men are at the Dawson station. It is their responsibility to assure the people and assist them in any imaginable way.”

Goldie accepted this explanation, as much as it annoyed her. For as ridiculous General Steele seemed to her, she couldn’t deny his practical reasonings. “What are we waiting for,” she flipped her hand at them, “that thing isn’t going to wait for us.”

* * *

It was a short climb, but longer than any of them anticipated. The hole was large enough for five lines to be drawn, but Goldie insisted on three.

“Why three,” Jack asked.

“It’d be a waste for five,” she tested its durability and started the descent. “If three can work, it’ll work,” she shouted back. She didn’t see her new companions’ exasperated stares. This didn’t stop them from following, which they did at a much safer, cautious pace.

Goldie wasn’t as careful, which surprised her more than she knew at the time. She didn’t mind taking risks, dangerous risks at the potential cost of her life,  but there was always security in knowing she would survived. People were predictable, unremarkable. What she’d witnessed several nights ago was beyond any imaginable scope.

And it had Scrooge. _He’s Scrooge McDuck,_ she gritted her teeth as she put one hand under the other, _he can get out of anything._ This was the truth, not an overstatement of strength and power. Scrooge was the sharpest critter she had encountered in years. He exceeded whatever expectations she had for him. So why? Why was she risking her life for him, again, after he conveyed her return was the last thing he wanted. 

 _The same reason you went back the first time,_ she sucked in a sharp breath and cast a glance up. Light seemed distant. A minuscule, tight ball above their heads twinkled good wishes for their journey, or ominous warnings, as she believed warnings were more poignant. _You succumbed to foolish ambitions, and look where it’s gotten you. And him._

“He was safer in the ice,” she mumbled. This was true. Frozen in solid ice he was safe from the mammoth, safe from the beast lying in wait in the shadows, and countless imaginary things she was given reason to suspect were real.

“Look below,” General Steele echoed. “It won’t be long now.”

Out of nerves, Goldie nearly snapped; shouting their arrival was the last thing anyone wanted, except for whatever awaited them. But he was correct. A shift in the atmosphere stirred their senses. Goldie couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t a tremor or a shiver, but she was compelled to look down.

A midnight blue veil greeted them.

“What is that,” Casey whispered above her.

It’d taken on the shape of a fog. A call to the darkest hour of night, it enticed them with its echoes, their origins unknown. Incoherent whispers flocked to her ears, pressing on the base of her skull. _You...you...left...us..._ burning flesh clung to her nostrils, and she closed her eyes, shoulders trembling as she forced her way through the thick fog. Time was a victim to the veil, and her limbs numbing strain were forgotten until her feet touched solid ground.

The others were at her side, similarly stressed. Jack shook his head, resting a hand on the wall, and Casey sat down, staring blankly ahead.

“What was that,” he asked, distant. “I don’t understand.”

“A magical layer to befuddle us,” General Steele said, standing tall. He reached for Casey’s shoulder and gripped it firmly, “Do not let it sway you.” He pulled the duck to his feet, “It is to mislead, to distract, to lure you deeper into its web. We must stay vigilant.”

Goldie shook her head, feeling a migraine forming in the center. “And what about you,” she cracked back, stepping ahead into the tunnel. “Why aren’t you all muddy?”

“The superintendent of the RCMP does not get muddy,” Jack answered, senses steadied. “Or that’s what I’m assuming he was going to say.”

“Yes,” General Steele replied, looking askance. “It is time for us to examine our new environment. Keep your eyes sharp and mind guarded.” He fisted his chest in a show of courage. He stepped into the open tunnel and stifled a sharp gasp. Goldie shook her head, motioning for the other two to follow, but a similar sense of wonder nearly struck her dumb.

Where their previous confinement was covered in black, goopy ink clinging to hard sediment, what lay beneath shimmered. The lantern Jack removed out of his bag was oddly misplaced. It’s glow was a pale glimmer within the unearthly glow shrouding every corner. It sparkled, more than glittered, and Goldie raised a hand, linging her fingers along the tunnel skin.

“It’s solid.” Its cool, sharp touch tickled her fingertips, and she pulled back, eyes bright as they tried to grasp the fading glow on her skin. “Very solid,” she mused. She dropped her bag, dug through it, and clicked her tongue when she found the item she searched for.

“Miss O’Gilt,” General Steele staggered to her side. “What in Blessed Bessie do you think you're doing?” He grabbed her elbow, eyes semi-bulging. “Dying will defeat the purpose of the rescue?”

“You haven’t learned your lesson.” Chisel struck the rock. A satisfying crack slashed her cheek, releasing a stream of blood. “Sharper than I planned,” she wiped her cheek with her thumb. “I want to know what we’re working with here,” she raised the shard to eye view, “what I saw was stretchy, stringy. Why is this different?”

General Steele glared at the hardened goop. “I don’t know,” he slowly unfolded his grip, stepping away, “but it’s best we don’t find out. It is in our best interests to leave some mysteries as they are.”

“If you say so,” Goldie swept through his impeccable fashion and haughty nature. “You’re in charge here.”

He nodded, turning sharply. Jack chased at his heel, sparing a wayward glance in her direction. Worry read on his face. Casey lingered at her side.

“He makes a point,” he said, appealingly. “We don’t want to cause more trouble than we need to.”

Casey was a good person, Goldie realized. She looked down at him, _A good and true and dumb man_. But even then, she controlled her disgust and rolled her shoulders for good measure.

“Of course,” she said. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

* * *

A ring of sparkling rock welcomed them, and they carried on in silence. Goldie wanted nothing more than to take advantage of these unusual circumstances. She didn’t know the worth of these rocks, but they appeared harder than diamond, sharper than obsidian. And despite their obscene nature, there were beautiful in a subdued manner she deemed acceptable.

 _A jewelry store,_ she calculated. _Would be interested if I curved the right story. But..._ she frowned, she needed to find Scrooge. She was more than eager to think of the future, with or without him she reasoned, but stepping forward into her dream was impossible while she remained ignorant to his fate. She needed to know, or at the very least, close this chapter of her life with satisfaction. She walked behind the pair, studying their shapes and personalities.

Easy. Gullible. But not as gullible as she hoped. _He knows something,_ Goldie remembered the letter lost to the flames. _What is it? What is it that you don’t want us to know?_ There was no use in wondering, and asking wasn’t an option right now. She continued behind, passing quick glances at Casey whose pleasant disposition unnerved her. He seemed far too cheerful for an inexperienced adventurer, and yet, he didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

“Wait,” General Steele raised an arm, stopping them. “Look sharp, team.”

“What,” Casey asked. He bent low underneath the man’s arm for a peek, “Wow, what is that?” Goldie glared at him for getting the jump on her but did the same, and then some. Sweeping under General Steele’s arm, she ran to the open area he tried to shield them from. Casey called to her, panic in his voice.

“Miss O’Gilt,” Jack whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Goldie didn’t respond. What she did, she didn’t care, and she didn’t run into the center of the space, just several inches ahead for a better view of the spectacle. This open field of rock and stone was comparable to her dancehall, with some additional features. The same hardened stone had crystallized over this dome shape field, and they were surrounded in sparkling, violet tinted rock burst around them.

This wasn’t enough. One circular glance later, Goldie spotted multiple holes driven into the rock. They were larger than any person, shaming the great grizzly with its size, and had eaten through the stone. She looked back at the men, motioning for them to come forward, and they did so, reluctantly. Casey hobbled along, clutching his back straps, and Jack swallowed thickly, running after him. General Steele paused, expression frosted in sweat, but silently relented, stopping short of the holes themselves.

“We each can take one,” Jack offered.

“It’s too risky,” General Steele commented. “What if something happens to one of us? This thing is lurking about. I know it knows we are here.”

Goldie paused, deliberating. “He’s right,” this annoyed her more than she could say. “Whatever that’s out there had to anticipate someone coming down here,” she crossed her arms. “We should break into pairs. If luck’s on our side, it’ll be enough to keep us alive.”

She passed a wary glance on Casey, and something hooked around her arm. She looked aside and saw General Steele standing next to her.

“Are you serious?”

“I believe it is most pertinent for us to work together on this endeavor, Miss O’Gilt,” he replied flatly.

Golide waved an arm at Jack and Casey. “And what about those two,” she snapped. “I doubt they’d ever been on an actual adventure. They’ll get themselves killed!”

“Hey,” Jack crossed his arms. “I take mild offense to that.”

“It’s more moderate, I think,” Casey frowned.

“It was supposed to be offense,” Goldie slapped her forehead. “Look, if you want to ensure our survival, you’ll let me take Dumb or Dumber, preferably the short one.”

“I think she’s talking about me,” Casey grinned cheekily.

Jack rolled his eyes.

General Steele was unmoved. He released her, stepping back, and folded his arms behind his back. “Miss O’Gilt, you underestimate the courage and strength of these men, and I will not allow it,” his mustache twitched side to side. “My decision has been set. You can abide by it, or I will ensure your resistance of a decorated officer charge will be enacted the moment we step foot out of here.”

Goldie rolled her neck, glare deepening. “Are you threatening me,” she said, lowly.

“I do not make threats -,”

“Because if you are,” she continued, darkness rising, “I will show you why they call me the Ice Queen of Dawson.”

Casey and Jack stared in tense horror, unable to suck in their breaths. They turned to General Steele, standing with a heaving chest.

“I will take my chance,” he said sternly, resolute. “Now, will you join me?”

He walked into the tunnel. Goldie trembled with rage, but miraculously, she bit her tongue. And she followed after him, “Use whatever you have on you when it gets messy.”

“When?” Jack looked at Casey.

Casey tapped his fingers together nervously. “I reckon gettin’ out of her won’t be as easy as it was gettin’ in,” he said to Goldie’s back, melding with midnight violet.

He'd kick himself later for that comment, far sooner than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this, I estimated ten chapters - tops. It wasn't meant to be a long story, and I think it's hilarious how out of hand this story has gotten. It's gotten bigger, ambitious, and a little silly too. All of this could've been avoided had they just...talked it out. That's the problem with Scrooge and Goldie as people, not just a couple. They suck at communicating, and while this story will show some improvement, they have a long way to go before anything is settled between them.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and see you next chapter!


	15. Idle Hauntings

What seemed a lifetime ago was in truth six or seven years, give or take. Casey waved his hat away from his family’s farm and departed to an unexplored world. His experiences encountered exceeded his imagination, and as an adult grown, he laughed at his former naive wonder.

He and Elvira imagined a bright, welcoming. They spent hours past their bedtime wondering what the world had to offer, but was unwilling to give. Grand cities, designed to excess, comprised with elegant dressed mister and misses.

Elvira’s ringlets trembled vibrantly, and she clasped them, pulling them down to her waist. Ignoring the pain, she hopped on her knees on the bed beside him. “I want to meet cowboys, or do you think there are cowgirls,” scooting next to him, she gripped the book he read describing the far away cities they’d never get to see. “And maybe,” she licked her beak hungrily, “there’d be fancy chefs to teach me all those Frenchy dishes!”

“I want to be a cowboy,” Casey thought aloud. He liked the idea of it. He’d ride on a great horse, guiding cattle from ranch to ranch. He’d sleep underneath the stars, surrounded by friends and furry beasts. “I don’t think I’d mind it,” he returned to his book, tugging it back. “I’d like to be a cowboy.”

A child’s dream, the air chilled their souls, warning them of waiting dangers. Casey wanted to retrace his steps back to rope. He wanted to escape to safety, but as insistent as his common sense was, Casey didn’t want to leave. He’d come too far to turn yellow, and his friend was in mortal danger.

He shook his head. A child’s dream, and leaned towards the wall. An unpleasant fullness drummed in his head, comprised of whispers intent on clouding his attention. His shoulder grazed the wall, and he fell his legs to weaken.

“Hey,” Jack’s voice pushed through the fog. “Hey, don’t you lie down.” His feet felt weak, but Casey shook his head.

 _Gonna be a cowboy_ , he heard her say. “Elvira, don’t leave,” his voice cracked like a kitten’s. “Please.”

“Hey, hey,” Jack kneeled at his side. “It’s okay. You’re not alone.” He glared at their original path. He didn’t think they’d make it back in time. Jack buried his fingers into his shoulders and dragged him to the center. “Come on, pal,” he slapped his cheeks. “I need you to come back to me.”

“Elvira?” Memories flared against intrusion. He saw his sister as a child, a woman, married with her firstborn child. “Eider, be nice to your brother,” he chided. “Now, now, don’t fuss.”

Jack sucked in an agitated breath. “Eider isn’t here, pal,” he added a bite to his slaps. The pain lingered. “Come back to me, buddy.”

Elvira walked away. “Don’t,” he blinked, raising a trembling hand. “Wait,” relief hardened his gaze, “you’re not Elvira.”

“I don’t think I’d make a good Elvira,” Jack grinned, but his humor fell quickly. He turned to look around. “Ain’t much to do about this most around. Seems to have an effect on our sensibilities.”

Casey stood shakily. His knees knobbed, but he reckoned after a few more steps he’d be back to normal. “I saw my sister,” he clutched his head. “When were kids. I can’t say why.”

“It drew an emotional response,” Jack speculated, fingers curled around his chin. “Whatever this place is it’s trying to distract us, lower our mental defenses.”

“What about you,” Casey asked. “Why aren’t you acting weird and fuzzy?”

Jack smirked, gently tapping the pencil pushed in his ear’s curve. “I’m a writer,” he answered. “We’re paid to reach within our deepest nature for truth and understanding.”

“So, you didn’t hear anything?”

“Oh, I did,” he smiled, sadly. “But I understood what was happening and plan to use it for writing material. My mind is fascinating.”

Casey didn’t know what to say to that, so he decided not to mention his friend’s fascinating mind. “Seeing I understand the mechanics of this thing,” his gaze burned into the sparkling stone, “it’ll make it tough for them to play another trick on us.”

Jack’s lips pursed together. “I hope that’s the case,” he squinted at the distance. His steps quickened. “Hey,” he whispered. “What’s that up there?”

There wasn’t an end to the tunnel, though they had hoped. It was difficult to tell despite the strange glow shining at multiple angles. Cautious of its dream like texture, they didn’t trust their senses to provide legitimate perspective, but it didn’t take them long for their sight to clear.

What began as wary curiosity sunk beneath genuine fear. Casey’s intensities twisted into knots, and his breakfast churned. “What is good glory is that,” he swallowed, turning to Jack for answers they knew he didn’t have.

“I don’t know,” he quivered, looking back at him. He stepped back, pointing. “And what’s that?”

“What?”

“On your sleeve,” Jack wavered. “Did you catch it on something?”

Casey raised the affronted arm and saw his sleeve had torn. The fabric dangled in shreds as if something had chomped it rather than ripped it, but that didn’t alarm Casey. He was used to torn shirts and hats. What he needed to adjust to was the midnight violet crust on his feathers and tattered sleeve.

He tried to swipe it off, but it didn’t release. He scratched over it, relying on his fingers to peel it away with force. The crust remained, a constant fixture on his skin. Casey swallowed.

“Does it look bad?”

“It doesn’t look good.” Jack inhaled, grabbing his wrist gingerly, “But it isn’t growing, is it?” He faced forward in their original direction. A haunted ash drained his complexion, “And that’s better than what they got.”

His morbid curiosity overwhelmed him, and Casey gave into temptation. He faced what his friend addressed, and realized the horrors lying in wait weren’t as patient as they had hoped. Threats crafted a well formed ring around them, and steadily drew near until escape was idle fantasy.

His fear screamed at him to flee but also bound him to where he stood. His throat dried in painful strokes, and his lungs expanded, a rush of panic freed, “What the hell is that?”

* * *

Anger was a comforting feeling in times of stress. Anger burned and pushed her to rise above others, but this time, its absence was a blessing. Or an omen. Goldie didn’t take to superstitions as much as her nana preferred. She kept pace with General Steele’s long strides, sending pointed stares at the man. She couldn’t believe this was the person the girls had gushed about, sweating in their dresses every time he passed by their saloon.

As annoying as it was, silence wasn’t their friend in this, despite his verbal misgivings.

“What do you plan to do,” she asked. “When we find this thing?”

“Apprehend it,” he stated, flatly. “Or…,” he gritted, “finish it, once and for all.”

Goldie’s eyebrows shot up to her forehead. His surprising display revealed a protruding jaw and perfectly square teeth lined neatly in anger. He shook his head. “I made a promise,” he added, softly. “I intend to keep it.”

Focusing her energy on their task was their best bet, and that’s what Goldie did. She stored her questions inside, determining the opportunity was going to rise sooner than later. They journeyed into the deepest reaches of the fog, and her mind wandered off into comparisons. Normal fog was dependent on the weather, while also being a product of the weather, but it’d never sparkled or shimmered as this fog did. She certainly didn’t recall any violet hues either.

Particles that might’ve been sediment  floated in and out, and Goldie waved her hand, hoping it’d disperse, but as soon as she saw her feet at the bottom, the thicket returned.

“Steele,” concern rose in her tone. “We’re going to have a challenge.”

She faced him, and saw he wasn’t there. Goldie stopped in her tracks, shaken, and she spun around at every angle. He wasn’t there. “Steele,” she shouted, panting. “Steele,” she hissed between her teeth. “Shit.”

The fog had thickened, just as she predicted it would, and had darkened. Its passive violet tint passed into oblivion, resuming its original midnight blue haze. Goldie inhaled, sharply. It tightened around her, a noose around her neck, but panicking wasn’t going to solve anything. She sensed this was what the mist wanted. Her panic was its glory, and victory. Instead of running in the opposite direction, she tempered her fear as she moved on, speaking Steele’s name in a clear voice.

“I swear if you’re dead,” she glanced side to side, “I will kill you, General Sam Steele. I thought a mountie of your caliber was better than this. Better than what this thing is throwing at you.”

The world expanded, stretching around her, creating sharp spaces impossible to fill. She tried not to think about this, assuming this was another ill projection the mist conjured to confuse her. She moved carefully, slowing her steps to counted paces, and breathed deeply.

Something crawled across the floor, quick, in a flash. “What was that,” she spun. There was nothing behind her, or in front her, except for the fog. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her teeth chattered to where Goldie clamped her beak shut. She was alone, and for the first time, she felt a painful chill in her stomach. Solitude didn’t offer asylum.

“Goldie,” the mist whispered.

She stopped. Every muscle communicated a terrified whimper, a whimper telling her to move, but she was frozen, caught in a web woven together with her fears and insecurities.

“Goldie, Goldie, my darling,” cooed into her ears.

She shook her head. “No,” she covered her ears, “you’re not real. This isn’t real.” One forceful step forward, she needed to find Steele. They needed to get out, alive.

“Goldie…,” its voice had morphed into something familiar. Goldie gritted her teeth, shaking her head, “Goldie, lass, please.”

Gripping her arms, her teeth chattered. “You aren’t real,” she said, tears rolling past her cheeks. “You’re not real,” finally, she swung around, fists positioned for battle, and no one was there. Her fire dwindled. Her left and right were empty; no one was there. She muffled her muscle’s screams, steadying her heart rate as she measured her options.

She checked her sides; no one was there. Her muscles stiffened in positions she knew would cause later strain. She circled the back, searching for any sign of the oddly comforting red Royal Mounted police uniform. Wherever he lay, Goldie presumed it was far out of her reach.

Moving forward was her only option. It wasn’t just about cleverness. Self preservation and pragmatic measures offered survival, though she knew it was a long shot in this under realm. She turned ahead, reluctantly returning to the mist’s blind points, and with her single turn, never trusting her relief, she faced it.

“Goldie,” it said. “It’s been a long time.”

Goldie paled. Speech abandoned her, as did other basic functions. Blackened, crispy flesh crackled four inches from her beak. His - _no,_ her mind hurried to comfort, its eyes were a milky, pale blue, an unreal shade. Her peripheral vision caught sight of its grip rising towards her, and instinct took action. She slapped the wrist back, floundering backwards as she reached for anything in her back to use as defense or offense.

“Why must ye’,” the wraith stumbled in its steps in its pursuit, “always abandon me to the wilds? Is it gold, love? Is it what ye’ want?” A mournful laugh crackled out of its slack jaw, “Ae’ll give ye that and more, just to share me bed. That’ll be enough, won’t it?”

“You aren’t real,” she spat. “He’d never say that.”

A wet click sounded in quiet air. “What do ye’ know,” the wraith’s neck rolled wetly, “ye never stay long enough. You never did.”

Knobby knees corrected with sharp cracks. Burns receded beneath the fresh plumage of earth kissed feathers. Its back straightened. At the skull, long, thick black hair flowed in a pair of plaits; its bright sheen called to her, called to her memories. Goldie’s breakfast rumbled disturbingly, and she shook her head, unable to close her eyes to fight the onset of terrified tears pricking her vision.

“You aren’t real,” she mumbled, covering her beak. “You can’t be real.”

He spread his arms. “Can’t I?” His laughter drummed summer in her heart, “Is the possible impossible?”

“You died,” she screamed. “You fucking died! I saw you die!”

“Did you?” It paused, concern and confusion pinching its skin tight. "You did," a watery sigh lodged in throat, as if his beak was ready to spurt tears. His jovial appearance concealed a threatening edge, impatient to carry out its purpose. “You watched me die and didn’t stay for the proper burial,” he stepped. “But I should’ve known better. All the dreams we held, our hopes, our future...they meant nothing to you.”

“You were important to me.”

“Was I,” arms open, their distance closed. She stilled as his arms, which felt close to the real thing, embraced her. Every sense in her heart wanted to fall forward, sink in the darkness, but she wavered, just as he cooed, brushing her short hair. "The past is a terrible thing."

"You're right."

"We had the world."

"It's potential was glorious."

"We could've been more than what we are."

His firm hold was unyielding. Something covered her boots, pushing them down, and she felt it claw up her legs, entwining into her pants. 

"Everything went right to hell,” she didn't trust her voice but assumed it sounded like a ragged murmur. “The past, the present, I did it to protect, but I couldn't protect anyone. I was never a protector. What was I thinking?” There was more she wanted to say, more she wanted to do, but only one thing mattered. She managed to pull her head back, holding his gaze as she imprinted this to memory. 

He smiled that crooked grin she recalled as she lied underneath the stars.

She smiled back, head tilted slightly.

He’d been beautiful, and the mist conjured a perfect replication of his beauty. But there was nothing pure or sincere about it. He gazed back at her as the rock dragged them together beneath its massive body, to be one with the earth.

"That's why I've chosen to let you go," she said. 

Goldie jammed the shard into his neck. Time didn't permit for her to formulate an elaborate plan, and verifying its efficiency was a long shot. Would it work? She did and didn't care. But with limited options, this was her last chance; she pressed the shard all the way through, seeing its harsh gleam snag briefly through its false, lower beak skin. Rippling pain soared through her palm, all the way to her elbow, a reminder that she wasn't as malleable as she'd like. 

“The moon will have her sacrifice,” past and present garbled as one, and another, deeper and lighter screamed its rage. With a grunt, she pushed deeper into its neck, refusing to recoil as the shard performed its sickening work. The wraith's throat slid open in a neat, clean slice. Her blood rained on its skin, and steam resonated off the streams. Its glamour dissipated, the creature fell to its knees.

"Orianna," it breathed its last, "will never forgive you."

Umber emptied down black sockets, and so did the rest of its appearance. Her blood shattered the illusion, and its crystallized remains revealed itself. The rock had taken on a skeletal form, and without the meat binding its skin and limbs, the bone tumbled to the side, a melodic rattle on dirt.

“I’ll live with it,” she spat, weary. She sucked in a harsh breath, "Good night, Wemantin." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she stepped back as the wraith relieved itself of its mortal facade, returned to its bound home.

As if sending this unprecedented disturbance, the mist dispersed, receding back into its walls. Goldie sighed, palm and fingers burning.

“Morgana, forgive me,” ran a haggard wail.

Goldie didn't wait. She ran in the wail's direction and found General Steele on top of a similar creature. It assumed a woman's appearance, dressed in dark reds with long, ebony hair. The General pinned it underneath him but had no method of killing. His gun lied aside, forgotten in the tussle, and his grip had sunken underneath hardened dirt.

Shaking off her pain and surprise, Goldie rushed to his aid, repeating the method she discovered was most useful. She split the wraith’s neck and watched its glamour erupt in red. Its manic grip around his neck went lax, falling across its chest as it lied, breathless.

General Steele didn’t scramble backwards, like a normal person would’ve done. He stood erect and corrected his hat. He found his gun lying three feet away and returned it to his snapped holster. Goldie panted, still sitting, staring at the skeletal abomination.

Her clothes clung to her skin. She was alive, this much she knew, and understood she could rely on. Clamminess deepened in her soul, and she sat there, silent. What had she done, she asked, unable to grasp the situation’s simplicity.

“You saved my life,” Steele cut through her thoughts.

She blinked. His extended hand waited for her grasp, and like a child, she slipped hers into his. She was on her feet, a little wobbly, but alive. This was what mattered. She winced. Her nerve endings were severed, and blood trickled pass her fingers.

“This will not do,” General Steele observed. Goldie didn’t have time to protest, not that she would’ve had she been able to. He reached into his bag, revealing a fresh first aid kit. His administrations were gentle if firm, and Goldie winced as the bandage was wrapped soundly.

“It will scar,” he said, once the task was completed.

Goldie shrugged, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been through worse.” She showed him her bandaged hands with a smirk.

“Yes,” Steele coughed, “It slipped my mind."

“Yeah.”

She kicked at a stray stone. “Look,” she ran her good fingers through her hair, “everyone’s got their share of secrets, and I can respect a good secret most of the time. But I can’t stand aside where money, gold, or any other identifiable treasures are concerned. You get what I’m saying?”

He glared, a warning. “Yes,” he answered, gazing back at the corpse slowly devolving into sand. “Your questionable intentions are apparent to me, but your point stands.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Mr. London is ignorant of my true reasons for this expedition.”

“It isn’t my fault he didn’t think to investigate,” she replied, flippantly. “Trailing the world’s most decorated Mountie, and he did what? Foam at the mouth?”

General Steele didn’t take the bait. A frosted touch covered his expression. His lips pulled in as if he gnawed on the skin. “My secrecy will not aid us,” his shoulders sagged and quickly stiffened, “let us go.” He continued down the path, arms folded on his back, and Goldie groaned, glancing at the decomposed corpse.

She wiggled the shard free, stuffing it carefully back on her person. It doesn’t hurt, validation snuggled at her ankles, and she followed the broad shouldered man.

Neither wondered whether she’d accept his word for truth. Goldie doubted it’d take much to convince her.


	16. Midnight's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a doozy.

Scrooge wasn’t in danger. This wasn't a lie. His not so recent capture dropped in a realm of considerable danger, and his chances were lowered at having been dragged to a deeper location within the monster’s domain. However, there was some reprieve; the depths he’d fallen to had decreased his chances of inevitable doom. Still hazardous, his chances increased. He didn’t know this.

After some time, he came to, feeling a dull ache on the back of his head. His eyes opened, and the stark distance between his body and the ground was acutely noted. A second passed, with him realizing he was stuck to the wall, and unable to move. He craned his neck around, seeing this wasn’t The BlackJack Saloon.

Dawson was a far away dream, or a frivolous, misplaced thought lost in foreign land. He was underground, and from the looks of it, far underground. He tried to wiggle free, but his limbs were glued to the wall, or whatever binding used efficiently held him on the cavern’s wall. He wasn’t in the city, or The BlackJack Saloon. He was far underground, most likely beyond the reach of human contact. And he was alone.

Scratch that.

He surveyed his location and saw that he wasn’t exactly alone. Other people were present, but their conditions were far worse than Scrooge’s. Illumination provided sight. Scrooge saw sagging skin and hanging heads. No one moved. No one muffled a resistance. It didn’t help that more than half of the people were corpses. Their decomposing skin revealed skulls and skeletal fingers, with a worm or centipede crawling through empty sockets. Scroogle swallowed, struggling against semi-hardened chains, but it had no effect.

Out of breath, he glared at the bottom below. It couldn’t end this way, not now. He’d come too close, had been just inches away from everything he’d ever desired. Scrooge felt a sharp pain in his gut. He didn’t want to imagine what was left after the fire tied loose ends. He’d lost his belongings. His goose gold nugget. All the money in the world was in his grasp, and he floundered it. He wasted his hard work, and for what? _For her..._ he wanted to spit. _No! Ae was tryin’ tae get me name cleared, but it is her fault, for all of this._ Scrooge shook his head.

Fault wasn’t welcomed here. Fault wasn’t going to save him. Evaluate the situation. His torso was fastened to the wall completely. The goop had solidified. His ankles were the same. He tried to push his tongue against the strip across his beak opening. That did no good, and he winced at the bitter taste. He tested his wrists. His right was restrained in the same fashion. He tugged his hardest to find a weakness, but there was none. He hung his head low, panting, but unwilling to give in.

 _Ae’m Scrooge McDuck. Did Sir Quackly throw his hands up when he hid the Knight Templars’ treasure? No!_ A calming breath soothed his nerves. He looked to his left and wiggled. His knuckles scraped the surface, creating a visible lump from inside the rock. Scrooge swallowed his gasp. He applied additional pressure; straining his clenched fist against the rock’s inner wall, more cracks appeared. Where the cracks shimmied, they chipped off in pieces. It didn’t take his hand long to burst out of its prison, and Scrooge guffawed. _Ae knew it!_ He brought his fist to his chest. _But why?_

Steam smoked off his feathers. Scrooge opened his hand and found a small locket in the center. A million questions spawned at this trinket’s appearance. He didn’t have to ask them. He brought the locket to his right restraint and watched the action repeat itself. Angry hisses simmered off the rock, and its composition fell apart, crumbling to the bottom. His wrists were free. He glanced down at his torso and beak. The decision was clear. He made quick work of them, pressing the locket on the rock on different spots, until the rock had weakened. Rock pieces rolled off his beak, and he gulped a gallon of chalky air, relieved. He did the same to his torso, and watched in bewildered amazement as the rock repeated the process, just with heavier chunks.

“Aha,” he cheered. But his joy turned to horror... _Oh no_.

Gravity dropped him fast and hard. There was no time to think. Instinct curled him in a ball, skidding down the wall, and this was how he rolled the rest of the way. His shoulder cracked against a sharper rock. For what seemed to be hours, ended in less than three minutes. Scrooge unfurled at the bottom, panting on his side, vision twisted in spirals as he waited for his equilibrium to return.

“Damn shoulder,” he hissed, forcing his legs to stand.

He patted his coat, dusted what he could. He looked at his empty palm. “No!” He searched, “I couldn’t have lost it. No, no, the one thing -,” the one useful thing in his arsenal.Its absence was an unexplainable loss to him; losing it felt like a death sentence. But in the illuminating mist, something he didn’t think to question, he saw a glimmer in the distance. His sigh of relief came out as a sob, and he ran, falling to his knees where the locket’s glimmer shined brightest. Five stubby pebbles surrounded it, losing it in a cage.

He wished he knew why he lamented the locket’s potential loss. Knowing its owner, there was likely poison in it, but the thing, for some reason, had saved him. He snatched the thing off the dirt, and sighed, clasping his fingers around it. He buried it in his pocket, having nowhere else to secure it. He searched around, spotting tools tossed aimlessly. A shovel, pick axe, tattered bags, and other old supplies that appeared older than he was; Scrooge took the pick axe, leaving moth-eaten bags to the floor.

“I can get out of here with this,” he inspected the tool. “Seems to be in good condition.”

“Y..yo...ou…,” choked a sound.

Scrooge stopped. He turned, completing a full circle, but saw nothing of concern, except for the corpses embedded in stone. “I need to hurry,” he mumbled. He hurried, dodging meatless bones and other items he didn’t care to think about. But he saw the five stubby stones ahead where he picked the locket off the floor, and heard the groans increase with awful clarity.

“Scrooge,” the phantom coughed. “Please, please, don’t go.”

Scrooge stumbled. He recognized the voice; as disgusting and distorted as it was, scratchy due to an overgrowth of rock in the airway, the sound was familiar. Scrooge paused, glancing at his feet where the five stubby stones - fingers, he corrected, twitched pitifully. Scrooge followed the sounds, despicable groans, onto what lied across from the fingers, and saw a face. He lifted his head just a fraction to conceal the horror, and he sucked in a sharp breath, deciding it was for him to study what had found him. He got on bended knees, and stared.

“You,” it coughed. “I can’t believe it’s taken it so long to find you. Of all the misers in the world, of all the greediest men I’ve faced,” it spat brittle stone at his toes, “you were the worst.”

Scrooge squinted. His skin was colored to perfection, but some identifying features remained. Like his spinal shaped teeth and his long, bulbous snout. Scrooge gasped, “Soapy Slick.”

“Ha,” another cough. “Took you long enough.”

“How’d this happen?”

“You’d want to know.”

“It’s why I ask, you ruthless ruster,” Scrooge glared. “Can’t say Ae’m surprise ye’ve gotten yerself into this mess.”

“Hmm...fair enough.”

“So?”

His stone eyes rolled annoyedly, but he relented. “Five years ago, when it was obvious you weren’t coming back any time soon, I sent some folks up there to find you,” a chalky tongue licked over his teeth, “three of the best lawmen known Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Judge Roy Bean. They were interested in Goldie’s expertise, and y’know, Judge Roy Bean always loves a good hangin.” His chuckles rattled like phlegm tearing down his lungs.

“Of course ye’d want to swindle me out of me money,” but he didn’t have the heart to be angry, not now.

“I wasn’t swindling you out of your money,” he drawled. “I put the good law to use.”

“Yer nefarious use.”

“All the same here.”

Scrooge didn’t have time for idle chatter. “What happened tae ye?”

“They couldn’t find you,” he said, weakly. “Searched high and low, no sign of ya’. I followed them up there,” he blinked, crust rained at the corners, “I wanted to make sure they got the job done, but…,” he paused, uncertain. “I got lost.”

Scrooge’s stare narrowed. “Lost,” he shook his head. “Likely story for someone unfamiliar with the terrain.”

“Yes,” he glared. “It was dark, terribly so, in a different way than I was used to. I made some shelter, lit a fire, my partners were with me, and I remember…,” he struggled, connecting faded memories buried in the earth. “I dreamt of you, or specifically, your gold. Ah, that nugget.” His teeth wore a bleak sheen, “It soothed my dreams, made everything better, I felt heavy, like stone, and then,” all light faded out of his eyes, “I woke up here.”

“Here?”

“It’s alive. All of it.” He sighed, “Don’t know what it is...but it senses us...our love, hate, and greed.” Rock spittle slid out the corner of his mouth, “And oh, the greed it hates.” He glanced at his pocket, “But that is different. It holds another power, and oh,” he hummed, “was it beautiful.”

“I see,” Scrooge got back on his feet. “I should -,”

“No!” A ravenous snarl echoed out his mouth, and his stubs wiggled in rock. “No, you can’t take it away,” through stone, his stubs revealed its entirety. A skeletal arm reached from the earth, towards Scrooge, “I need it! I’ll die without it! You don’t understand!” He sobbed angrily, “Give it to me! Give it to me, McDuck!”

Scrooge recoiled in horror, hand deep in his pocket, fingering the locket. “Ack,” he ran forward, kicking the leg, “ye’ macabre monstrosity!” His foot connected with Soapy’s wrist, and with shock (and some horror), he watched the wrist collapse into dust. The arm fell feebly. Scrooge didn’t wait. He stepped back, and soon broke into a quick sprint, clutching the locket in his pocket and gripping his pick ax. He didn’t wait. He didn’t look back.

"I need the sun," Soapy howled. "The moon watches constantly."

As empty sockets watched in silence, Scrooge escaped Soapy's desperate howls into the deepest pits of the hall.

* * *

“What are The Five Treasures?”

In the depths of the caverns, not as distant as she presumed, Goldie walked at General Steele’s side. For several moments, the man maintained his silence. She believed this was a calming method for collecting his thoughts. As a gesture of camaraderie, she bit her patience until he was willing to speak.

“It started in Romania,” he said, quietly.

Goldie passed a stare on him, heavy and sharp. “Romania,” she repeated. “That’s a long way from Canada.”

“It is. In my youth I traveled extensively to far away places, learning their culture, creating lifelong friendships,” a distant fog covered his monocle. “A rewarding experience, if I do so say myself.”

“Charming.”

“A companion of mine, Van Helsing, was an expert in the supernatural, or that’s what he liked to believe,” he laughed, stiffly. “He often went on long expeditions, battling ghosts, werewolves, vampires -,”

“Hold on a second,” Goldie stopped him. “Am I supposed to believe all of this,” she gestured to the walls and over their shoulder where the remains of the wraiths rested, “was the act of an old crone witch and vampires?”

“If it were so simple,” he huffed. “Witches and vampires and ghosts and werewolves are easy, simplified,” he continued in a single breath. “I understand them fully and completely, but this?” He frowned, “I do not. I feel there are darker forces working here.”

“But what about Romania?”

“Yes, returning to the story -,” he inhaled, deeply. “Centuries ago a terrible Count ruled Transylvania with an iron fist. He was thought to have died, but he became one of the undead. A vampire, sucking and draining the life of his countrymen. He took man, woman, child; all were at his mercy.”

“What happened?”

“The people of Transylvania sought the assistance a relative; the patriarch of the reputable Macawber Family, Moloculo. A family or sorcerers, zombies, and other dastardly creatures, the people struck a deal with Moloculo, as long as his family was left undisturbed, he and his allies would seal Von Vladstone away.”

“And they did?”

General Steele nodded.

“Old Moloculo’s allies came near and far, and they energized their magic into their territories’ relics, sealing Von Vladstone.” He exhaled, “And the terror was hidden beneath the veil of magic and strength. The relics remained in their native homes, and if one were to ever unite them, well -,”

“He’d be freed,” Goldie finished.

“Yes.”

“Has anyone tried?”

“Oh, of course,” a dark note had taken root in his tone. “None have returned to tell the tale. The reports we received of missing miners led me to believe this was the case - desperate gold mongrels in search of a treasure they had no business lurking about.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Goldie said. “These five treasures were spread across the world. How could you know this was the cause?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted, grimly.

“Ah, there lies the dilemma.” Goldie scoffed. “It isn’t a hundred year old vampire, then what is it?”

“I can’t say.” He looked forward, “But whatever this thing entity is, it has been longer than anyone can imagine, and it is angry...very angry.”

The truth of what happened earlier shook Goldie to her core. “So,” she shivered, “what we faced back there were the lost miners.” She carried her gaze onto Steele, peeling for answers, but she didn’t need his acquiescence to confirm what she already knew.

“I suspect some are older.”

Goldie was silent, another possibility she didn’t want to dwell on. Her priority was cemented the moment she returned to the living world. “I’m here for Scrooge,” she repeated. “We have unfinished business to conclude,” she added with a note of frustration.

“As I have been informed.”

“What is that supposed to mean,” she turned, sharply.

General Steele faced her unlike he had faced anyone else in his years as a decorated officer. “Mr. Coot informed me of Mr. McDuck’s bravery and honesty, but for some reason,” his monocoled eye squinted, “you led me to believe he was a right scoundrel, vicious and cruel.”

“I didn’t say that,” she retorted, weakly. “I said he took me to his cabin and forced me to work for a month.”

He tilted his head, both eyes shining brightly. “And pray tell, for what reason did he abduct you,” he hummed abduct in a mock cheerful tone, completely unbecoming of a man of his station. But Goldie sensed his station had fallen beneath his recognized priorities.

“I don’t remember,” she clenched her left fist. Her right was bandaged and tender. “He’s an unfair grump, that’s why.”

“Or maybe because you stole his hard earned gold nugget,” he leaned to her side, whispering softly, “like you stole my personal letter during my visit.”

She swung around, shock and annoyance mingled into one, and General Steele pulled back, smirking in triumph.

“You didn’t.”

“At last,” he coughed a laugh, “I have caught the great Star of the North off guard. I was led to believe only Scrooge McDuck was capable of accomplishing such a feat.”

“McDuck wishes he could,” she snapped, defensively. “He’s never been able to get one over me, and he never will.”

“Oh?” His smirk broadened, and laughter lingered on his tongue, “So what happened in that cabin? Five years is a very long time, Goldie.”

Red sparked under her bruised purple cheeks, but Goldie mustered a partially dignified, “None of yer damn business, Sam.”

“If it reassures you, I too have had past loves,” he chuckled. “Some have stayed, others not so much.”

Goldie stared ahead, pouting, but her annoyance relented to curiosity. “Morgana,” the question lied in her stare, and General Steele sighed, a sad smile on his lips.

“She remains my dearest friend and confidant,” he confessed. “But we share different worlds, one of dark and light, and her father,” he frowned, bitterly. “He is not an accommodating man.”

“Hates the normals?”

“With a passion,” he said. “If he were to know what we’d done,” he rolled his neck. “It was best for me to leave Romania.”

Goldie stared at this man, an officer of the law, constantly determined to send criminals and evil-doers to justice’s hall, and found humor had built in her throat. She released a laugh she hadn’t intended to hold, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. This was General Sam Steele, and she had called him Sam.

Not Steele. Not General. Not even Sir. Sam. He called her Goldie, and for some reason, this warmed her better than the sun. Their silence resumed on a lighter note; softer, comfortable, certainly bearable with everything else considered. The humming mist had thinned, sensing an absolute anomaly in its entrails, but nothing else had spontaneously burst on their path.

“It knew me,” she frowned, brow needled together. “It knew my name. It had…,” she closed her eyes, “taken the shape of someone I had loved.”

Sam was silent. “It is safe to assume this mist has the ability to dig through our memories, and our insecurities.” The last he added kindly, and gripped Goldie’s shoulder. “Our guilt, shame, it pulls what it knows will hurt us, but that does not make it true.”

Goldie swallowed. “Yeah, for me it is,” she chuckled, ruefully. “I am that selfish, and I did leave him behind. I left a lot of people behind.”

“And I am sure had you stayed, they would have killed you too, for lying with him.”

She did a double take. Her feathers paled beneath dried blood and bruises, and she couldn’t spit out a hot retort to divert him. He shook his head, sadly.

“I have seen my share of mankind’s horrors,” he answered with more grief than she imagined.

“I didn’t say what happened,” it was painful to swallow when a tremor had masked itself on her throat.

“Wemantin?” Sam appeared to age twenty years in a second, “With a name like that, it was obvious, and I know what...people do to those they feel are beneath them.” He chuckled bitterly, “Moloculo would be aghast to know he and normals shared this wretched trait.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” she admitted. “I ran, then...I didn’t come back. I don’t know if he’s really -,” but it didn’t matter, not then, not now. She abandoned him. She’d abandoned him when he needed her the most. _“Run…,”_ he screamed at her. _“Run and hide.”_ And she did that. But she should’ve returned, to find out the truth. “It hurt too much,” she quivered, heart palpitating in her chest. Each fluttery beat threw disgust into her stomach “And I was afraid. I was afraid of what would happen if I returned. So, I regrouped at my parents, and then...I left for the Klondike, a new start, a fresh start.”

A simple, easy task in hindsight. She hadn’t stayed long, not at the time, about a year or so, and recovered her senses. She worked in the fields at other farms, gathering enough money for the move. “My parents agreed it was for the best,” she continued, staring at her bandaged hand, “they needed the money.”

For some reason, Goldie didn’t understand (and would never understand), the tears rolled freely. A year she suffered their silent criticisms and joy, finding solace their joy was louder. A year she calculated and planned, determining what decision was best for them as a whole.

“And when the time came,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay, or just run away with everything and never return, but I didn’t.” She covered her eyes, shoulders shaking. “I messed everything up there, and I did here too.”

Tears dropped below. Sam glanced at the tears, puncturing the rock at their feet. “Goldie,” he kneeled, “I cannot say with absolute certainty that you are faultless, but we all hold accountability for our actions, for better or worse. I...I…,” he steadied his breath, “too have made countless mistakes, some for the greater good, and others, for reasons far more selfish than I like to admit. We carry our burdens. We hold them to our hearts, but the only way we can relieve ourselves for them is to act, and be better than what we were.”

“And you think I am?”

“You’re down here,” he said, plainly. “Doing her best to save the man she does not have any romantic affection for whatsoever, because it’s the right thing to do.”

Also due to her own involvement of his abduction, this part she didn’t think needed saying. Goldie wiped her eyes, and inhaled, laughter hoarse. “Yeah,” she sniffed, “I doubt that he’ll think that, but...yeah, I’m here.” Which went against every notion of self-preservation she had orchestrated for her benefit over a span of ten years; this time, she wasn’t angry about it. This time, she didn’t regret it.

Sam didn’t smile. Smiling wasn’t something that he did easily, and Goldie sensed that had he smiled, the sight would make her tremble in either revulsion or fright. He patted her shoulder, “Good, now, let our lighter hearts carry us onward. If this entity has accomplished anything, it’s hardened our resolve.”

It did, Goldie realized.

She was going to save Scrooge.

She was going to make it back to that little farm.

She was going to protect her world.

* * *

“Look down below!”

A shout above was joined with falling rocks. Goldie and Sam looked up, seeing a hole carved in the cave’s ceiling, and they sidestepped, each to one side, as one after the fell in between.

Jack landed first. Casey landed on top of him. Entangled, they pulled and wretched free, groaning in agreed discomfort and pain at the lack of proper cushioning.

“Thanks for breaking my fall,” Casey sat. “Could’ve broken my neck!”

“You’re welcome,” Jack muffled, turning his head sideways. He spit some rock bits out, “Now, please,” he gasped, “Casey, you’re on my head.”

“Oops,” he hopped off, looking worriedly at his friend. “Didn’t think we’d go down sliding.”

“Go down sliding,” Goldie asked, stepping forward. “What happened up there?”

It didn’t take them long to gather themselves, but Jack did most of the talking. “We found a part of this place that’s kind of wrapped up, thick of mist,” he flattened his lips, “yes, yes, I know, mist is everywhere. Casey almost got sucked in it.”

“We know,” Sam said. “We too faced monstrous beings within the mist, taking shape of our loved ones.”

“Really?” Casey shivered, “All I saw was my sister, got right confused.”

“But that isn’t all,” Jack added. “He was nearly swallowed by the cave. I think it was trying to lure into him, suck it in - being one with the Earth,” a wary glanced expressed all they needed to know. “We escaped and made our way deeper where we found an entire pit of ‘em, folks that had gotten sucked up into it.”

Sam bristled, “It appears your assessment was correct, Goldie.” His frown contemplated the weight of Jack’s words, “These abominations are lost souls trapped in the abyss.”

“Yep, and Soapy Slick’s one of them,” Casey added, pushing his hat back. “We found him at the bottom, sobbing for his mama, but he said some strange things.” Her searched quickly for the right memories, “Something about powers and feeling whole again.” He and Jack exchanged a worrisome stare, “He mentioned Scrooge.”

“Scrooge,” Goldie gasped, closing their distance. “Did you see him? Was he there?”

“No,” Jack said, tense. “There were signs he was there. A little bit higher than Soapy was the remains of the sticky substance had hardened, but it looked like someone had gotten out of it. Don’t know how though.”

“And we witnessed what fate awaits them,” Sam replied. “Scrooge managed to escape? Perhaps, he had a weapon to cut the tethers.”

This was too much; their voices blurred behind her. It mattered Scrooge escaped - the standard for him, but what use was that to her when she had no way to reach him. Using the wall as a support, unafraid of its hunger, she went to the end where a clearing lied below. It felt impossible, lost in the labyrinth that they’d find something of this nature; wide, vast, and far more spacious than its entrance, Goldie eyed its innards.

Opening after opening; tunnels dotted its surface. But they were different, not as large, or comfortable from what she was able to see. _These were man made_ , she thought. _Someone burrowed through_. She glanced down, seeing wooden markers impaled into the dirt. A complete circle around a mass of sand in its center. Measuring the distance she estimated the leap wasn’t too far. Where they were, the chances of injury were considerably less than their previous encounters.

“What if he knows what we need to do,” Casey asked. “Scrooge has always gotten out of sticky situations.”

“We have no way to find him, Mr. Coot,” Sam said, more shaken at this confession than anything else. “We may need to turn back and regroup.”

“But we’ve come so far, sir. We can’t just -,”

“Jack, we can’t afford to waste our lives on this, as much as it hurts to say it. We have no way of communication with Mr. McDuck, and we don’t have enough information to assess this situation.”

“And how are we going to get back,” Jack charged, frustration reddening his cheeks. “We can’t turn back empty handed. If we do, then more people are at risk, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Goldie wavered at the edge. She didn’t know what she was searching for, or why she searched for it. As she passed her gaze over the mid tier openings, she saw a flash. That wasn’t correct. It wasn’t a flash, but a dim, weak flicker. This other world they’d fallen to permitted some illumination. It didn’t compare to the sun’s brilliance, and it didn’t need to. She saw what she needed; his wife feathers, torn fur coat, and blistered snarl, coiled tightly on his beak as he swung his pickaxe.

She didn’t hear what he said. She didn’t have to. Her heart at her cartilage and bone, and guided her to the edge where her hand rested. To her right was a sign. Cracked, blackened, its script was loose and sharp, “Cut down on the emotion, ya’ maroon.”

Goldie glared. _“What the hell is that supposed to mean,_ ” she darkened.. The time wasn’t opportune. She returned to his form, and swallowed.

“Scrooge,” she whispered. Low, barely audible, not even the squabbling men were able to hear, and she doubted he was able to hear it. And maybe he didn’t, she’d think back on this moment, but it didn’t stop him from turning. Coincidence? Luck? Goldie would never have the answers, and she didn’t care. Scrooge turned, swinging his instrument of destruction, and the world paused.

Just for a moment, the world stood still, and for them, it was all that mattered. Him and her. Red fluttered to her cheeks, rising beyond her bruised cheeks. She swallowed.

He was shocked. This she knew. His eyes widened in confusion, mistaking this for a trick. She didn’t blame him; he was fighting off undead earth beasts. She shook her head slowly, and nodded, understanding her drastic change in appearance did her no favors. But he knew her, that she was real; flesh and blood and swindling parlor tricks and more.

It may have been hopeful, a shameful hope - she accepted this too, but she thought she saw him smile.

“Goldie,” he said, far too quiet for her or anyone to hear. But she felt it, in her deepest heart; the heart that was neither tangible or visible, there lied his call. Her fist lied on her breast.

She wasn’t the only to have felt this call. A low, quickening rumble rose underneath their feet, cutting their squabbling short. The three men raised their head to the ceiling, and hurried to the end where Goldie stood, fixed on the other side of the den.

Scrooge felt it too, and saw his assaults disperse into the cave’s skin. But his rescue team’s attention had drawn to what laid several feet below, in the pit surrounded in sand.

“Blessed Bessie,” Sam whispered, horror thick on his tongue. “What have we done?”

No one was able to answer his question. They didn’t know what chain reaction their actions had caused, but knew it was nothing good as vibrations sprang from the pit’s center.

It spat at the wall. A great, honking glob of the same substance that had taken Scrooge was aimed at their opening, missing them only by a few inches. It sparkled and glimmered beautifully as it slunk and hardened on the wall.

Goldie stepped back, options running through her head. Run? Leave? Sharp pain ran up her spine. No. Running wasn’t an option anymore; it’s arrival was imminent.

“Brace yourselves, men,” Sam shouted. “I fear we are about to meet the creature itself.”

His prediction was sensible, though they prayed for him to be wrong, but their prayers went unheard as rumbles clamored to their feet. Their pensive stares returned to the pit where a hand - no, a claw materialized out of a hand. They gripped their shovels and pickaxes and their guns, knowing none would be of assistance, and readied their nerves.

After the first claw appeared another, and they rammed inches from the deep burrows below where other signs were lined. The claws were connected to its torso and head, rising over twenty feet tall; taller than any tree Goldie had laid eyes on. Each notch of its spine was sharpened to puncture. Luminescent white filled its skull, and its sockets clicked, glowed with daunting awareness and it sought the ones responsible for disturbing its abode.

No one breathed. No one whispered a word. A single thought drowned under terror, and many thoughts died in that moment. .

Its lung shaped fingers crashed into the walls nearest, destroying the passageways built over time. They stumbled, grasping each other for balance. Goldie jutted her thumb down, resolve pushing horror aside. Sam nodded. Jack and Casey exchanged weary glances.

They heard the crashing behind them. Their necks turned, and their hearts screamed. The shockwave was enough, and the tunnels they had tread down were destabilized. The ceilings crashed down to its floor, obscuring the paths they knew were their sole chance of returning to the upside world. But there was no time to think about that, or even lament their inevitable demise. Goldie surveyed the edge and what waited below; she sent them a final glare to guide them down their way as she skidded on the rocky side. She pushed her right foot forward as she evaded the creature’s view, and searched above for any signs of Scrooge.

The spot where he stood was destroyed, just dust and pebbles, and Goldie swallowed, fighting off wasteful tears and frustrations. At the bottom, she ran past the warning signs, “Go for the heart, if there’s a heart. There usually is with these kind of things, or it could be its soul,” squeezing through the middle, and entered its shadowy inner circle.

The others ran towards her, huddling. Only Sam seemed able of working a potential game plan. She panted, glaring at twisting hands and angry crashes.

“Where’s Scrooge,” Casey asked.

“I don’t know,” she hissed.

“What if he -,”

“He didn’t,” she said, resolute. “I know.”

She didn’t get a chance to explain how she knew. The skeleton beast reared its hands up, shedding an unearthly glow onto them, and howled in pain.

“Great golly,” Jack clutched his hat. “What’s going on up there?”

Sam was about to speculate when they heard a harsh, jubilant cry.

“Ae’ll teach ye to mess with Scrooge McDuck, ye sinister scadge!”

They stared, blankly, and lowered their heads, shaking tiredly.

“Of course,” she chuckled. “Break apart, men. We can’t make it that easy for it.”

And for once, they did as they were told. Goldie ran behind its spine, dodging sinking pools, and on the edge, saw where her miner had gotten to it.

Scrooge had pierced his pick axe into the nape of its neck. “Ye’ having a rough time,” he snarled with joy. But he failed to notice its approaching hands, eager to pluck him off.

“The idiot is going to get himself killed,” she reached for her shard and chisel. _Seems like it’s his speciality,_ she buried the chisel first, then the shard, hurrying up the back to meet Scrooge where he continued his assault.

But for the first time, her thoughts breathed vehement fondness, rather than hate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wipes forehead*
> 
> Hot diggity dog was that a rough chapter to get through. I wanted to cut it off at an earlier point, but none of it seemed right. I kept going until I was done. Sam Steele is the friend Goldie needs in life, and keeps it straight with her. I like their banter. 
> 
> The whole...thing that you've obviously caught on to was something I've always wanted to write a story including this subject, and I know it may be a little controversial. But I firmly believe Goldie had a life before and after Scrooge. Does this mean other lovers? I don't know. She's got needs, and so does he. This doesn't mean they aren't committed or loyal to each other, or that they aren't. To be fair, my headcanon is Scrooge is demiromantic.
> 
> Goldie and Scrooge are finally reunited, but not in the way they hoped. I'm getting used to writing action/adventure.


	17. Say a Little Prayer

Unaware Goldie had hitched a ride on the creature’s torso, Scrooge pushed onward. He buried the locket deep in the monster’s neck, and its pained screeches brought relief to his chest. Hot steam resonated from its skin, revealing white cracks burning underneath its superficial surface, but the pain was no worse than a mosquito bite. 

He needed more, something stronger, heavier. “A substantial source to kill the thing,” he hissed, scrambling away from its searching claws.

He'd forgotten his pickaxe in the monster's neck, right below the locket. He dug his fingers into malleable dirt, scurrying up the neck. At the top of the skull, he finally viewed the chaos he'd been ignorant of.

Screams stirred his stomach in disconnected familiarity. He leaned an inch forward, annoyance twisting his glare. There was no point in speculating the reason for their presence.  _Could be worse,_ he frowned. An entirely unfair assessment, considering no else had come to his aid, and knowing no one else would, Scrooge disregarded his nasty observation. He curled his hands around his beak to shout, “Casey Coot, wot’ do ye’ think yer doin?”

Occupied dodging sharp claws more than eager to rip him apart, Casey spared him a quick glance, “Tryin’ to save you, I think! But we may have eaten more than we can chew.” He leaped between the claws prickly fingers, and barrel rolled out of danger. Where terror pooled in his gaze there was determination. Life outlined his terror, pushing him forward. As he slid back, digging his heels into the sand, his hat was swiped off his head.

“Oh no,” he cried, reaching for it. “Not that, anything but that!”

Casey ran for the hat; a simple, tired straw he kept on his head at all times. His fear of death withered under a fear of losing his hat. Scrooge looked to the side and saw the left claw rolling towards him, just as the hat glided on scarred winds.

Horror filled his chest. Lost in his new goal, Casey didn’t register the monstrosity careening at him, and there was no way for anyone to stop it. Scrooge curled his hands around his beak, shouting Casey’s name. He didn’t hear him, or the warning didn’t click in his brain. It didn’t matter. Scrooge was going to see his friend died, and he started a frantic descent to latch onto anything to deter the creature’s rage.

He didn’t understand what happened next. None of them. The claw’s knuckles were several feet away, and in a single moment it’d connect with Casey’s beak, mangling it beyond repair. But this didn’t happen. His beloved straw hat floated haplessly towards them. Weathered and well worn, it witnessed a number of remarkable events, not known to Casey at the time. Once its scratchy rim brushed against the creature’s hard, sharp knuckles, time slowed. Scrooge knew time continued at its normal pace, but it seemed everything after unfolded in slow motion.

White splintered beneath rocky skin. Like inflamed veins rising to the surface, and the skull shifted painfully to its burning limb. The hat landed squarely on a knuckle; the hand was forced onto the sand, vibrations knocking the men off their feet. Scrooge gasped, staring in awe at the sight; his confusion was exhausted. But there was hope, and they needed that more than anything.

It was as if the hat had impaled the claw. It flipped on its knuckles as it slammed onto the sand in defeat. Casey was knocked to his side, face covered in sand. Sam and Jack was on their path running to the back when they were tossed to the side. Its fingers twitched, swollen with colorless light. Its other hand sought to free its twin from its prison, but an electrified light struck its fingertips. Recoiling in horror, it groaned miserably before releasing a high pitched yelp.

Casey scrambled to his knees. “My hat,” he grumbled. “Gotta get my hat.”

It wasn’t far from him, resting in the creature’s palm. Scrooge’s eyes widened, and he continued his scrambling descent, sliding down its massive shoulder. “Casey,” he shouted, “don’t ye’ dare touch it!”

He was a few feet away, and jumped back in shock. “What?” He shook his head, “Scrooge, are you talking crazy? That’s my hat! Elvira made it for me!”

Back on semi-solid ground, Scrooge placated Casey. “Ae know, Ae know,” he panted, “but look, it’s pinned the thing down.” This was accurate. It wasn’t going anywhere while the hat rested in its center. “Ye’ cannae think of movin’ it right now.”

“But why my hat?”

Scrooge didn’t have an answer to that. He kept a wary glare at the other hand, patiently biding its time on the other side. “Ae cannae say, but Ae used Goldie’s locket ta’ keep it from moving up there,” he gestured to where he buried the locket into its neck. “It has to have some sort of power.”

Jack and Sam were out of breath, sweating buckets. “I doubt it has any actual power,” General Steele hazard. “From what we were able to tell, this abomination can manipulate our emotions using figures of our past, for better or worse.”

“Usually worse,” Jack hunched forward, gripping his knees as he heaved. “Far worse.”

“But…,” Scrooge said, quietly. “Ye’ said yer sister made the hat for you.” He face Casey, expression rough and raw. “That’s what ye’ said, right?”

“Y-yeah, she made it for me when we were kids,” Casey jumped. “Always wore it when we went out in the fields with Pa.”

He thought rapidly. “Ae found Soapy Slick,” he said, aloud. He curled his index finger and thumb around his beak, brow furrowed between his eyes, “He told me how this thing found him. He was thinking about stealing me gold.”

Jack frowned, “So what are you saying?”

“That the damn thing hates greed,” Goldie shouted from its shoulder. “But it’s the only way it can snatch ya,” she gasped, climbing to the very top of the skull. She gasped, shaking her head, and dug her pickaxe into the skull. “You’re a greedy asshole? You get eaten like a greedy asshole.”

“But Casey was nearly taken when we got here,” Jack pointed out.

General Steele frowned, mustache twitching. “That was an attempt to lure him away, to take him willingly, but the process must have been two slow. And yet,” he searched Scrooge, “Mr. Slick has been missing for over five years, and you were able to talk to him?”

“When we found him, he was mumbling a few things we couldn’t understand,” Casey shook his head, sadly. “It was awful.”

“He was far too gone for anyone to help,” Jack lamented.

“But he wanted the locket,” Scrooge insisted. “Said it was powerful.”

“It could be it wasn’t the type of power you were thinking of,” General Steele said, “maybe, it was a different power.”

Scrooge listened and nodded, but as the world appeared to smother them in sand, he kept his gaze up. She was at the very top, copying his moves as she scaled down, except she kept her pickaxe. In her left hand, she clutched a bright, sharp glass she quickly hid in her pocket.

He swallowed.

There was something about her hair, and eyes. It was impossible to recognize one without the other. Her bold glare flogged him, and as a steep murmur took hold of his heart, he noticed purplish-blue swelling around her left eye that spread down to the cheek.  _What happened,_ he wanted to ask, but the distance was too great for him to shout. She'd evade his questions with a sly and uncomfortably defensive remark. This was for certain, but he wanted - needed to know. He couldn't explain this desire buckling him down in an unwarranted stupor. She set her foot to the ground, moving back underneath the creature's shadow ring. 

 _Why is she here,_ he asked, more fearful than relieved. _What is she getting out of this?_

His throat tightened. Last time she returned out of shame, or guilt, or another abstract concept he wasn't ready to accept. What he did understand, later that same evening, was she'd acquired information he never intended for her to know. He played ignorant then, letting the truth simmer between them until it exploded, leading to this unshakeable nightmare.  _And then she sent the mounties on me,_ he scowled,  _to get me to return._ He'd throw his hands in the air if her attempts hadn't succeeded in the worst possible way. His accurate guess wasn't going to help them.

Scrooge inhaled, calmly. To touch her, grab her by the elbow was more than his imagination was capable of endure. Demanding answers, no matter his justifications, wasn't something she'd yield to. It wasn't like his answers were out of his reach. The signs were visible, but his refusal to accept them for what they were left him wanting. Goldie observed his conflict at a distance; limiting her attention to exhausted observant glances maintained the lie. Once she reaffirmed he was capable of continuing unassisted, she resumed her excavation. Its complex simplicity stunted her; glimmering aura burned blue.

 _She wanted you to do something, then,_ he swallowed. _Ye’ were ta’ thick ta’ do anything._ Scrooge McDuck didn't fear affection and romance.  _But Ae do._ Bile rose to the top of his mouth. He shook his head and pushed the men aside, leaving them to their avid discussion of potential escape. He went under the arm, meeting her halfway. He saw the gleam of her chisel, and crossed his arms.

“Is this an appropriate place ta’ be doing this?”

“Sam said the same thing,” she chipped eagerly. “And it saved his life.”

“Sam?”

“The General,” she explained.

Heat darkened his cheeks, another emotional betrayal. “And ye’ two are on a first name basis, now,” he lowered his head, sternly.

“It happens when you go through a traumatic experience together,” she said, plainly. Sparkling feet fell at her feet. She kicked it around and grinned. “Ah, this must be the mother,” her tongue passed over her palate, “there’s diamond like material on the other side.” She turned it over for Scrooge to see; sparkling, blistering white - brighter than a diamond’s glare, winked at him. “I don’t know how much it’ll go for,” she opened her bag, “but it won’t hurt to give it a try.”

As interested Scrooge was in the rock, he put forth all his concentration on her.

“Ye’ came -,”

“Lets not,” she cut him off, sharply. “I’ve gone through hell to find you, McDuck, and I don’t need you questioning my intentions.”

“Ae wasn’t -,”

“And for your information,” pointedly looking away, “I’ve had to face a lot of shit I thought I left in the past, so if the next words aren’t, 'Thank you' or 'Goldie, thank you for saving my life' I may just hit you with this axe here.”

He could count more than a million options bouncing from wall to wall; confusion, bewilderment, concern. Her sentence ended on a shaky note, and he saw her shoulders tremble before defiantly stiffening. Back to him, they were uncomfortable aware she was grasping at straws.

He silenced his inquiries.

“Yer locket saved my life,” he said.

This was enough. "What," disbelief plagued her battered skin. "Sounds like you busted your head too, 'Saved your life.'"

"Ae'd be dead," he insisted. "That locket made it possible for me ta' fight back," he shrugged.

"A multi-talented locket."

"Wot's in it?"

"Opium," she answered. "Works in small quantities," she smirked, rapping her knuckles on the rock's harder side. "Suppose there's enough emotional junk for a good kill." Every time she moved, shedded hair fell, sinking in dirt; this was a minor inconvenience. Her chisel cracked and snapped skin off the lower arm; potential profits poured. The creature groaned, bearing invisible teeth at the destruction it made.

To his shame, this was what he wanted to believe. It was easier to believe the locket held drugs she cautiously dropped in a hot cup of coffee or a thick alcoholic beverage, just to smirk in silent triumph as an ignorant miner consumed their drink to finish. Her preferences weren't limited; anyone of financial prowess held her attention, and her drink.

Intuition warned him something else lied in the locket; its residual emotion waned the mist's defenses. But Scrooge’s wants were irrelevant. Her secrets were hers to keep, and he’d respect it, for now.

“Yer lying,” he said, side facing her. “And that’s fine. Ae donnae need ta’ know.”

Goldie’s resolve was firm, unbreakable. Above a quiet thumping chained between them. She chased the sound directly above, and didn’t gasp. Its glow was bright, clouded in midnight velvet, and pulsed erratically. It shimmered in and out of sight, strengthening and weakening in the wake of its confinement.

“Its heart,” she whispered. “What an ugly thing it is.”

“Goldie, we're talking.”

“And now we’re not.”

“Ye’ do wot ye want,” he finished, tightly. His firmness returned, and he marched back to the others. She watched him go.

The heart thudded. Tick-tock in her brain; she tried rolling the unpleasantness off. She’d gotten enough of the rock for potential sale. It’d compensate her saloon’s loss. The largest chunk glittered and sparkled; its value teased her. Beauty enraptured her. Curves of diamond sand smoothed their wrinkles, jeering at her adoration. Its reflective skin showed her danger bubbling in the creature’s center.

Goldie watched its left, right. One dead, the other impaled. The light strengthened. An exuberant glow swam from its stomach, abandoning darkness to propel itself out of the mouth. In her experience, this indicated ill-intent. Like the malicious light, she ran towards where Scrooge was, never weakening her grip on the rock. They'd all been lulled into false security.

An unfairly dangerous assumption they made, believing the monster was truly neutralized, that its final secrets were known. A sly tongue kept Lucifer's secrets, and kept them tight. Sinners were ill prepared for his tricks. Goldie moved quicker than the warped energy suspected she would. Right as viscera shaped vines slipped silently out of its mouth, heading for its nearest prey, she substituted the energy.

Scrooge was shoved to the side. His shoulder crunched loudly, and no one heard. Their attention was drawn to the horrible light protruding between Goldie’s breasts. It entered through the back, and struck her, slipping past her rib cage and chest cavity. Her backpack fell to the side, its insides spilled. Deafening silence smirked in triumph.

“Goldie,” he whispered. The others said nothing at all; petrified with terror.

A slow, heavy curve of her beak gasped. Such a little thing to do in the great scope of everything, but it told him the very thing he needed to know. 

“Scrooge, I -,” an internal explosion knocked her senseless. Her head lowered, shoulders slumped. Motionless in its hold, and slowly, like a sleeping child, she was carried off to its mouth.

Reality struck Scrooge. He scrambled on his knees, trying to find balance. “N-no, not her,” emotion strangled his pleas. “Anyone but her, take me,” he cried. The skeleton collected its prize like a child at a carnival after winning a goldfish. Goldie sunk was in the white plague of its mouth, submerged to where not even her bleak outline was visible to the naked eye. Her neck rolled back, and she exhaled a calm breath. Unafraid, undaunted, acceptance cradled her stunned muscles.

She was consumed in a single gulp.

Everything she was became light. An orb of golden light descended through its body. Her passage to its stomach was a quiet one, that distant gold glow husbanded a firefly’s tail, and ended once it reached where they presumed the stomach was located. It flickered brightly, warmly, to reward them for their journey, and like the insect it imitated, died.

“No,” Scrooge wailed, struggling against a defiant grip determined to pull him away from the mouth that had devoured her. “No, no, Ae need tae -,” he shouted, screamed at the skull’s satisfied blankness.

Their voices were all he was able to make out. There was no meaning, no sense. Just indescribable sounds; panicked and uncertain. And soon, they were moving. Scrooge didn’t know why they were moving. _No, she’s right here, we need ta’,_ his exclamations choked and pitted away, _Don’t ye’ understand? Ae need ta’ go back for her._ A tunnel was what they ran for; a tunnel that had escaped the earlier blows. Down its path was light. True light. Moonlight’s pale stream beckoned them to her embrace. _No,_ he tried to sputter, _Ye donnae!_ Scrooge buried his heels into the sand, choosing to stand his ground if nothing else. But whoever had other plans including refusing his desire. He was whipped over a broad shoulder, and felt frantic footsteps rush into the passage. He was too stunned to speak or grasp what was going on, and sunk into a groan, “No.”

As his overwhelmed senses lulled him into a fitful unconsciousness, a single thought persisted, a meager comfort as the team escaped to the unknown.

“Just for me, she smiled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment I wake up...before I put on my make up, I say a little prayer for you! Too soon?
> 
> Ah, well. I'm sure you'll be fine.


	18. The Moon's Sacrifice

A dream within a dream, this she was ignorant of. Goldie slept in peace, curled in a tight fetal ball; neither dream or nightmare plagued her. Her coma state suppressed her to where the felt touch on her shoulder was fleeting. It was as if a dove’s feather was intent on awakening her. She stirred, pushing the intrusive appendage away, and rolled flat on her stomach, more than content to remain asleep.

“You need to get up,” someone said. “You need to get up now.” Urgency squeezed their tone just as a chambermaid did with a warm birthing towel, and Goldie heard none of it. One grumbled protest, too grumble for coherency, and she snuggled deeper under the bed sheet. Whatever importance lied in the waking world could wait, her senses told her. But the dove’s feather turned cruel, and Goldie found herself naked under crisp cold, pulled from her semi-comfortable bed.

Jolted awake with a burning glare and head spinning, she locked her anger onto a wrinkled, frantic pair of eyes that twisted her into confusion. “You were asleep,” the old woman whispered, aghast. “When the children have been chosen!” She was impatient and gripped Goldie’s wrist, dragging her to her feet. There wasn’t a line or snap Goldie could’ve said that would’ve ripped the woman’s hold away.

“Where do you think you’re taking me,” Goldie jerked, but the old woman’s bony fingers were sharper than they appeared, burrowing their flesh into her skin. “I said let go!”

The old woman was resilient. She dragged Goldie all the way to the door, and spared two sharp glances to the left and right. Her breathing ragged, she turned to Goldie with dark, fiery eyes, “They’re going to offer the children to her. We must do something, and quickly.” Assuming her captive understood what she spoke, the old woman sped down the corridor lit by wall torches. Goldie gave up trying to free herself, transfixed on her unfamiliar surroundings. Hard stone blocked them forward, backward, left and right, creating a narrow path but wide enough for free movement.

“I cannot believe it has come to this,” the old woman whispered. “I knew the birthing numbers had decreased over the past years, but the priesthood always resorted to stillbirths and those too young to truly mourn.” She tsked three times, shaking her gray curls sitting stiffly on her head. “Times are tried.”

“For an old lady, you’ve got an amazingly strong grip,” she said.

She didn’t look back. “And for someone as young as you, you are completely unreliable,” she spat. “I did not expect to find you sleeping of all days as the night of horrors commences.” She made a sharp turn, causing Goldie to skid, and they went down a darker corridor where in the distance an accumulation of torches flickered their welcome.

“Night of horrors?”

“Go on and shout it will, you!”

“I’m just repeating what you said,” she snapped. “Yeesh, you’re acting as if you’re mother.”

The old woman stopped abruptly. Lost in annoyance and confusion, Goldie didn’t realize until she smacked straight into her back. She fell back, landing on her bottom, and after a moment, glared. “I should,” she said at last, whipping her head around, “because I am your mother, you foolish child.”

The old woman standing above her was her mother. A decade flew on since they’d last laid eyes on each other, but her frost mist stare was undeniable. Age lines crusted along her eyes and the corners of her beak. Her mother wore clothing she’d never seen before; dressed in dark indigos and pinks, she was clothed from the top of her head to her ankles. Her headdress was a dazzling pink, sprinkled in sparkles, and matched the pale pink choker around her neck. It was safe to assume her former blonde ringlets lingering in Goldie’s memories had faded to traditional steel grey, but Goldie couldn’t be sure.

Terror and confusion and timidity she hadn’t known since she was a child caught her tongue. Comprehension fluttered away, leaving Goldie with a deep desire to remain ignorant of what she’d fallen into. This illusion, or delirium - whichever point that made most sense, was too much for her to endure, and she shook her head, scrambling away from the old woman, who was unquestionably Orla Billough O’Gilt.

“Oh get on up, will you,” she whispered. “For someone as young as you, you are completely useless,” she spat. “I did not expect to find you sleeping of all days as the night of horrors reached the moon’s brightest hour.”

“Sorry?”

“You should be!” She crossed her arms, critical sharp, “And look at you, you’re dirtying your clothes. After all the time I put into the dyes and fabric. Shameless, ungrateful child.”

As annoying (and horrible) this was, Goldie assumed her natural position. “Aw, Ma,” she rolled her eyes, “you made it sound like this was important.”

Orla glared. “It is important,” and without another word, she took hold of Goldie’s wrist, determined to find their way, “we have wasted enough time. If we wish to save him, we must move quickly.”

“Him? Save who?”

Orla, or the woman disguised as Orla (but was certainly not Orla) frowned bitterly, and then sighed, sending a backward glance that was more sad than angry. “I do not want to know what compels your humor,” she said, disappointed. “I did not expect my own daughter to forget her son, and the fate that lies ahead for him.”

“Wait,” Goldie chuckled. “Son? I -,” another backward glance silenced her. “Can you at least tell me what is going on?”

“Irresponsible, sluggish, thoughtless child.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Orla inhaled, making another turn where the torches’ glow strengthened. “Tonight is the night where the offering is made,” she explained. “I bribed the guards to see you, hoping there was a chance to save him.”

Goldie didn’t ask who, as a sinking sensation in her stomach told her an unfortunate tale. _Something’s wrong here,_ her inner monologue rising anxiousness, _sinister and vile._ Another awareness overwhelmed her as she absorbed her surroundings; their enclosure, her clothes similarly styled to her mother’s, albeit shaded in darker golds and greens, and the rampant usage of torches spoke for another place, another time, far distant than any time she’d ever known. Unable to free her wrist, she kept pace with the woman - her other mother, and in the distance saw the corridor’s end.

“How much do we have,” Goldie asked, seeing the post was unguarded. “You said the moon’s hour is brightest, right?”

Orla stopped at the end, beak closed tightly. “It’s already begun,” she said. All color slunk to her toes as her shoulders heaved in heavy resignation. They entered a spacious hall where fire scaled the long walls and people crowded together, thick and cool at once. It was the sound of waving water that alerted her of the pool ahead, and Orla took her around, making quick strides until they were able to get an adjacent view of the circular pool.

“Pardon me,” she tapped on some person’s shoulder. “May we get a better view?”

“No, I have waited weeks for this to happen. Terrified of what would become of my family,” the tall woman muttered. “Now, I can cement my family’s future.”

Orla’s glare darkened, “And it is my family that is paying the price of saving your family.” She elbowed the tall woman, bringing her to her knees, and gripped Goldie along, not looking back to see the damage done.

Goldie did. The tall woman clutched her side, and raised her head, shock and guilt and relief clouding her vision. Turning away, she relied on the dim sight of her mother’s water grey ringlets, mostly confined to her headdress, for reassurance. But it brought little comfort; dread had taken root, starting as a small, insignificant seed had grown dramatically in the passing minutes (or hours). Now, a bush, her stomach’s inner muscles twitched and spazzed, leaving her light-headed. This wasn’t the time to succumb to bodily weakness. Orla maneuvered through the crowd with rising ease, and she paused only when a grand voice projected over their heads.

“We offer this sacrifice to you,” the head priestess stood on a stone pedestal. Her face shielded in thin cloth, she extended her arms in praise, “To our glorious moon, to our glorious -,”

Orla resumed her chase, and Goldie was left to her mercy. She didn’t mind it, not this time, as it seemed to be case when Orla O’Gilt took control. All problems were ironed out under her mother’s touch, and that’s what she wanted to believe now. Daydream or hallucination, her mother would figure this out, but her reassurance was an ulcer in her stomach. Agitation and pain bubbled in digestive acids.

“We praise you. We honor you. We plead forgiveness and strength and power, for our crops, for our families,” her chants echoed on the walls, but this wasn’t their home. Goldie realized this as soon as they made it to the edge of the pool where a bright, white moon rippled reflection waited on its surface.

But the reflection was obscured. A handmaiden stood in the pool.  It wasn’t the handmaiden or the step she stood on, but the body she held in her arms. A child.  Small, limp, but their chest rose and fell steadily. _A sleeping draugh_ t, she predicted. _To calm the nerves._ Her dread scaled her stomach and reached her chest cavity, and there acceleration took hold.

“He is a child, a boy, a loved child,” Orla said.

“And so were the others!”

“Yes, but -,”

“You cared little for my daughter who was taken as Tinnit’s blessed one.”

Goldie twitched, “Tinnit?”

“I did not know your daughter, and I was not in attendance for the judgment.” Orla spun around, pointing her finger at some phantom vision, “I may have considered differently had I known better.”

“It is for the best,” another raised their voice. “We all must make sacrifices.”

“What do you mean Tinnit,” Goldie reluctantly removed her attention off the sleeping child and bodied water, turning to seek her mother, but she wasn’t there. Beside her stood a woman dressed in her clothes. It wasn’t Orla. Her skin was brown and wrinkled and tired; she was taller, dignified, and her prim expression bore no response except for distance traces of sorrows.

“They are right,” she murmured. “This will save us all. You must understand, my child. Your son will be our future.”

A scream rattled to her front, and she jumped, searching for the offender. Her throat tickled, and soon, burned with scratchiness. It was raw. She clutched it in pain, staring ahead in horror as a woman flung herself into the pool. She trashed the priestess holding the child, and wrenched him free, though still unconscious.

“He is mine,” she wept, struggling to balance the child as she floated in the pool. “And you, you cannot have him,” she screeched, glaring at the docile moon aloft in its heavenly realm. “I did not offer my child willingly!”

Uncertain murmurs spread through the crowd. What did this mean for their sacrificed, they asked. Terrified stares latched onto each other in solace, unable to craft a singular punishment for this crime. But Goldie stood still, staring at thrashing waves, and saw a dark figure in the waters. It wasn’t in the water, or under, being tasked to several points near the ceiling.

Dressed in night black robes, a bow was strung, and in the flames, an arrow’s iron tip glistened. Goldie spun as quickly as she could, searching for the assassin, but the arrow was released.

There was no sound. No startled gasp or painful cry. The woman, still holding the child to her breast, stumbled backward. Her open mouth was like a fish’s; the lower one was split and blooded. Half her face was bruised, marring the rough smoothness of its side comparison.

On the edge, her want and need pled mercy, to each of them clinging to her despair as sustenance. Her dark brown gaze met Goldie, and she sighed, “There is no hope.”

Her last sight was the last they heard of her. So quiet it was, the crowd question whether their ears weren’t playing tricks on them, but Goldie saw her chest rise and fall as she exhaled her last breath, stepping over the edge. Just a second was what it took. She and her child embraced the moon’s shadowy vigil; the other end of the arrow slipped with her, waving a solemn farewell.

They sunk.

Goldie was numb, staring at ahead at the spot where the woman and children previously stood. Her breathing was an autonomous function she rarely, if ever, thought to control, but now it stuck to her chest, terrified to exit in fear that her horror would enter their minds, turning their anger and disgust onto her. Frozen  at the edge of the pool, she watched the priestess step back, and back, so far she was no more but a distant blotch in the landscape. The head priestess was worse. Her voice projected to the masses, reassuring them their sacrifice was worth it.

“In her name, we shall find prosperity.”

“In her name, we shall find prosperity,” they chanted.

With every chant, she lost a little more. Her vision scattered and swirled, combining into a disorienting assault. Their chants strengthened, collecting and stampeding on top of each other; its harmonious nature started to slag, growing outrageous and confused.

She held her lungs tight and firm. When the water came to her, curling its limbs around her torso, bubbling her in a sphere she didn’t think to fight. Like her predecessor, her limp muscles encouraged the procession, and with joy, it claimed its prize.

* * *

 

“A traveling man gave me a name, ” said a voice. “Tanith. About a lost goddess.”

“Tanith,” Goldie scoffed. “Sounds foreign to me. Won’t she already face a lot of trouble? Don’t need to add to it with a name.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want the world dictating what they can and can’t be.” He smiled, a boyish smile that used to make her  blush, “Not like they did me and my people.

She set a hand on her swollen stomach, three times its usual size. “We don’t know what to do when it hatches,” she said, absently. “Guess we’ll wing it like most folks do.”

“Aren’t most folks married,” he chuckled.

She wrinkled her beak. “As if,” she said, looking away with her beak raised. “Goldie O’Gilt will marry no man!”

“Fair enough,” he laughed.

Wait, she squinted in the distance. _Wait, this...we in the apple orchard on that farm. Right before..._ the water’s grip trembled. _We decided Micah, for a boy, and Orianna, for a girl. But then, he died. And..._ Goldie rolled her shoulders. _And…_

Ahead he stood. He was taller than her, but not much. His green feathered head was covered in thick black hair, tied in a neat ponytail. His beak was a bright yellow, and curved in a stiff smile as he beckoned a brown-black feathered hand.

 _“Come on,”_ he whispered. _“Get out of there, girl.”_

Goldie inhaled. The moon didn’t anticipate this disturbance, had never faced such a troubling source, and the power that tried to drown her evaporated. She fell, landing on a hard floor, and heaved, though her body and mouth were dry.

Another chance encounter, another unusual encounter, and her brain accepted it silently, its attention drawn on getting her to stand, which she did after several moments. Still trembling, she circled her new location, and recognized the terrain. Though it was wider, thicker, and expansive, this was the land she had crossed with her team; except, white currents webbed through its rough skin like blood vessels. Pumping. Thumping.

Goldie touched her elbow, gripped it. Which way to go? Its white heat provided sufficient light, and she glanced at her feet. Shoes. Hats. Gloves. Hammers. Shovels. A long, long line stretched down a brightly it path, and made a steep curve towards where Goldie assumed was the stomach or the heart. But there was no way to tell unless she ventured for herself.

Her chances of survival weren’t fair either way. She pushed one foot forward, then another, and soon, she resumed walking’s rotation.

“I was going to name her Tanith,” she whispered. “Ma was distraught, fought fought me every time. ‘We need to be smart,’ she said. ‘You’ve got an egg by a red man - a _red_ man,” she wiped her eyes. “I conceded. Named her Orianna - a good name, an acceptable name, but sensible me refused to let go of Tanith.” She shook her head, “I wasn't going to let her take that from me, from us. That was the name we had chosen. Tanith. Dammit."

The path of forgotten possessions led her to its end, but she'd be a fool to think it was the end of her journey. She glanced warily over the cliff, and was hit with an acute wave of deja vu. Going down there was dangerous, she sensed. But there was no other way to go. She gripped the side and slowly, slid down. At the bottom she realized this was an identical replica to the pit where the monster had consumed her. Goldie sneered.  _Ain't no other way to go, what am I going to do,_ she walked quietly, wincing every time sand crunched underfoot.  _It's coming,_ there weren't any visible signs, but she knew. Goldie crossed an invisible threshold, one foot in an inner circle, and soon, its twin followed. There were no screams for her to turn back, and there wasn't a dangling hook for her to leap on, securing her safety. 

She wouldn't have leaped had the hook fallen in her space. She was tired of running, of eluding the beast's hunger. It was time for this to end, and seeing she was the only one around to do, she flopped down, and waited. Waves vibrated on the surface, dragged to its center like ducks in a pond for a slice of bread. 

Sand swirled in a miniature tornado, sculpting a shape. Goldie's attention traced the sand create a skull and torso, streaked in dim light. But unlike its greater vision, this creation was unnaturally normal. Small. Petite. Its back faced her. Goldie sucked in a breath, shifting her foot off the other. Sitting cross legged was uncomfortable.

It - _he_ , turned.

All was beautiful and white in its horrid gaze.

Goldie didn't flinch. The light wasn't bright.

“You are one angry little boy,” she said.

“And you are one persistent roach,” the moon’s sacrifice sneered. “How are you alive?”

Goldie didn’t blame this malevolent source of grief for its poignant question. She smirked and shrugged, fearing nothing and everything at the same time.

“What can I say," she shrugged, resting her elbow on her raised knee. "I'm Goldie O'Gilt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the darkness lies light, but it isn't beautiful, nor is it kind.
> 
> Yes, Orla O'Gilt is a DT17 update of OG DT Goldie O'Gilt.


	19. The Earth Gives Back

He saw a star.

A beautiful star, the brightest in the sky. Like a firefly, he was drawn to its flame. He reached to touch its glow and pulled back in pain, fire seared his fingertips. But the pain didn’t deter him. Allured by its brightness, he returned to the star, patient and loving.

“Ye don’t have tae love me now,” he said to the star. “Ae’ll be here when ye’re ready.”

And the star took her time. Shaming her kin, she shimmered brighter than they ever did; an act of retaliation to his declaration. His love angered her. It fueled her buried pain. His kindness was patient. He wanted to wait. And wait he did, until another star’s ghost swallowed her whole.

Scrooge reached for her. An instinctive drive to keep her safe, but just as his foot took its first step, a pair of arms scooped him away. They were stronger than they had any right to be, and he watched in dumb horror as his bright star slumped in colorless light.

This was where he got angry.

Or that was the point where anger usually consumed the deepest crook of his soul, abandoning him to primal, destructive rage. Grief spat on his anger, spiting this power residing in his bones. Powerless to do anything, he was hoisted on a broad shoulders, watching as the skeletal creature resume its locked position. Satisfaction popped at the corners of its mouth; dark, purplish dust flicked off.

“Keep going men,” General Steele commanded. “We were afforded this opportunity. We cannot waste it.”

“But what about Goldie -,”

“It is too late,” he said, tightly. “We do not have the manpower to save her.”

 _It is too late,_ echoed the sentence in his hollow heart. It is too late. But how? It was a wild card to estimate the digestion time of the beast, and a great disservice to assume its digestive system was similar to a person’s. As its figure started to blur and fall distant, like an ink blot on a black landscape, Scrooge realized turning back was not an option. (At the time, it was impossible to not lie blame in their cowardice, but later, fault lied nowhere. Choosing to live rather than die in vain was noble in its way.)

Grief and anger pushed down, with anger swirling at the top. General Steele was stronger than most men. Scrooge didn’t think of how he was going to escape. He simply knew that he was. He was Scrooge McDuck. He was helplessly in love with the brightest star of the north.

“What in the devil’s name,” Jack chattered. He skidded to a stop, and turned, “Back, we need to turn back.”

His senses were submerged beneath an ocean of grief; a single thought thrashed against wrathful waves. He heard and saw what attacked them on their path, but this single thought held him captive. It clung to his mind, circling in constant rotation as he kept steady contact on midnight's sculpture.

 _Goldie...Goldie...is in there_ , and so it happened when General Steele was thrown aside, Scrooge went rolling beside him. A wet, sticky moan tore his punctured eardrums. He might have turned his head towards the creature and its kin to release a snarl of his own. He was in no state to fight, not them or anyone except the beast that had taken his love away. But despite his desires, he was pulled to his feet, and he stood, staring face to face at one of the creatures that had nearly killed him moments earlier.

His intentions were not bent on self-preservation. A pragmatic fighter, he reached for the nearest thing in the vicinity, and smashed it face first, right onto the creatures skull. It was a rock wider than his hand, and the indentation on the wraith’s forehead was prominent. Its slack jaw rolled, click to the left, then to the right, and Scrooge squinted in confusion, moments prior to releasing his full rage on the wraith. Golden blonde hair sprouted off its skull, passing down its shoulders in uneven lengths and its left, uncrushed eye morphed into a wide, river green cut iris that held his gaze for what seemed to be eternity.

“Scrooge,” a flawless imitation of her. “What have you done?”

Tears swelled in his eyes. He removed the rock, not bothering to look at the damage done (though a rock size crater was the sole evidence of ruined stone), and in a flash moment, too fast for the wraith to react, he smashed it back on its skull.

Again and again. He threw himself on top of it, and its tedious gnat snaps were useless against him. He raised his arm and sent it back to the imprint he parted with earlier, with additional ferocity. But he didn’t stop. He smashed the rock back onto its face, its skull, and didn’t stop there. He ruined its hair, eyes, beak; everything that reminded him of her, every component of its grisly caricature was smashed to dust.

Its swipes ended. Its arm fell. Scrooge, seeing his comrades restrained in battle, similarity removing wraiths, disappeared down the narrow path their master created. He kept the rock on hand, mind sharp and muscles willing. There wasn’t time to second guess his choices, or give them a chance to drag him back. He ran, dodging extended appendages thrusting out of solid rock to get him.

Hundreds, thousands were told to hunt his blood, but he wasn’t sure they’d want it once they got it. Scrooge slid underneath, gritting his teeth, and bloodying his knees. A smart man would’ve kept the other way, never straying from the path fate had restored for him; one of comfort and life. He’d resume his adventures, providing home and hearth for his family in Scotland, and though both brought him more pride than he imagined, their tastes were a bitter wine he’d never swallow.

As he stared at the master wraith, head pulled low and sockets emptied of its white blaze, he realized she had honeyed the wine. Her tenacity, cleverness, and occasional kindness, of which he’d treasure his personal account, had eased his solitary travels, adding a spark that had been absent for as long as Scrooge could remember.

He stared at its sagging head and empty eyes, moved down to its spine where the locket was embedded. He glared. Underneath the spine whiteness brewed in low quality, drawing a tentative silver shade free. This change was noticeable to the untrained eye; with sharp vision, he was able to see flecks of gold.

“Ye’re alive, Goldie,” plan set to motion, coming back alive wasn’t an option. An unsung fact he intended to make real. “And Ae’m going to get you out.”

* * *

“You’re alive,” he said. “How?”

Goldie didn’t know what to make of it. This thing's - child's, she corrected, passed over to curiosity in a snap. His furry head studied her like a fresh specimen. She was too tired to care; leg propped up, she rested her elbow on it, staring back.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she sighed. “I can’t answer it myself.”

“No one has lived before, no one,” ripples danced on his amber glare. “I always capture the invaders,” he continued, raising his chin. He puffed his chest.

Goldie held her breath. Held it tight and firm, and reminded herself that this was the wrathful spirit of a murdered child, but her laughter slipped through, strip by strip.

“What,” he cracked, aghast. “Why do you laugh?”  
  
Goldie tossed her head low, shaking it. Her lungs tightened in good humor, and by time she was able to look at him again, there were tears.

“Oh man,” she wiped her eyes. “That was a good one. He’d love to hear it.”

“Who?”

“The rabbit.”

If it was possible for a glare to solidify the great quantity of its malice in one go, this child succeeded.

“The rabbit,” he crossed his arms, “was a fluke.”

“Those tunnels say otherwise.”

“He comes from The Old World...a descendant of the decadents of space and time.”

“Decadents? Should you be using that kind of language?”

“I am…,” his cheeks reddened. “I should kill you now.” He rushed for the final strike.

“And what,” Goldie asked, “never find out why I’m alive? Not a smart move.”

He stopped right above. He moved back, swiftly, scowl present.

“Will you tell me,” he asked.

“Depends,” Goldie clicked her tongue. “What’s your name, kid?”

“My name?” His face twisted in a snarl, but quickly softened, “My name...no one’s...I don’t.” He closed his eyes.

Goldie winced, ashamed at her tactless inquiry. Over a hundred years, probably more, his name was a product of a far away time. She kept her silence, giving the moment to search his memories, buried under a blanket of abandonment and sorrow. 

“My...parents...my mother,” he licked his lips, “called me Bassam.” He nodded, certain of this, “She said it was for the smile I greeted her with upon my birth.”

“Sounds lovely,” she said. “Is she here? I saw her in the -,”

“You were not supposed to see that,” he said, coldly. His fists clenched, “I do not understand what made this possible, and no, she is not here."

“No one?”

He was silent.

“How?”

“I awoke in darkness. That is all I can say.” He kicked at sand as he talked, putting forth all his attention on its appealing features, “I lingered in my city. I stayed for a time, but...I did not like it there. I thought I could find her there. I searched for her.” His bottom lip trembled, “I found Grandmother, but she had remarried a merchant and was happy.”

“Oh, sure, she was,” Goldie rolled her eyes.

“Another child was sent to Tinnit,” he continued, blankly. “I do not understand why I was different.”

Goldie blanched. She swallowed, “Bassam, do you know what happened to your mother?”

He shook his head. “No, I believe she went to another village. It is what widowed and childless women tend to do. It is not unheard for women to return to their families. Grandmother's remarriage may have complicated things,” he frowned, looking ahead. “That is why I left, to find her, but I did not. She was gone.” His long, black tail swished sadly.

She didn’t understand. It was his memory she’d slipped in. His memory of what happened, but he had been asleep for the duration of it. No. He didn’t know the full story, and she cursed her luck at being the one that did.

“Why are you here? Why are you…,” She motioned to the walls, “turning them to rock people?”

He shrugged. “I cannot say. Because I want to? I drifted for a long time, and when I came upon this place, it was quiet. I liked it. I slept for years in the ground, expanding my reaches beyond what I thought possible, and I felt everything.”

“Felt?”

He nodded. “Seeing, feeling, it’s all the same. You can draw feelings, visualize them. Hunger, anger, love, hate, and greed.” His expression darkened, “Greed was loud. Louder than love, hate, and the more people, the louder its volume."

“So what? You attacked them,” the bitter memory of her saloon stuck, “you killed them?”

“I wanted to sleep, or...forget,” he shrugged. “Whichever one came first, but then you came. And now everything has changed.”

Goldie didn’t flinch across the way. She didn’t want to give this child the satisfaction, but his manner of undressing her concerned her. A tremor went up her spine.

Her memories nourished its strength, but not just hers. Thousands were housed in this tomb. Their terrified final moments fertilized its terror. But Goldie’s were different. She saw that now; his close examination and reconstruction of a lost love told her so. She said nothing, staring at him with hard eyes, and shook her head.

“Bassam, I am one of the greediest people alive on this parent.”

“You are,” he confirmed. “Not even the pig or the duck,” he jutted his chin forward, “can compare to your hubris. The amount was more than enough to hold you here and improve your design, but...but…,” he trailed off, uncertain.

She knew what he meant, and hated it. His seemingly eternal years failed to wipe away his child's innocence. Goldie could see he couldn't grasp morality's complexities. But then again, neither did she. She understood some parts of it. What she knew wasn't sufficient for this. As the child stood there, held prisoner in befuddled thoughts, Goldie found her footing.

He wasn’t far. Just a small panther cub with a dull yet remarkably bright eyed gaze. She walked to him, more of a limp than a dignified stride. He sensed this unwarranted movement, and snapped to her, ears flattening to his skull, he released a tiny snarl.

“Stand back,” fur raised. Tiny claws extended wearily, and Goldie paused, glare tested.

“After everything,” she wiped her face, “do you really think that’s going to stop me.”

“I can hurt you.”

“But you won’t,” she said.

He slipped his bottom lip in his mouth. Neither admitted she was right, but his claws retracted. With a wary eye, he watched her kneel in front him.

His shoulder didn’t feel like skin or sand. It was malleable, easily changed, and the child decided upon this shape, his true appearance. Goldie didn’t flinch, pushing away these past few days’ horrors away. She swallowed, “Do you want to see your mom?”

His gaze brightened. No. They glowed. “What sort of question is that,” he tried to find his voice. “What child would rebuke their mother?”

“You haven’t meant mine,” she chuckled. “Or me.”

“But you love your child,” absolution flattened his tone. He wasn’t cruel, speaking this simple truth. “Your heart weeps for her.”

“And others,” she murmured. “Hey,” she grinned, uneasily, “how about this?” Before a protest rose to his lips, her right arm looped under his legs, and the left curved around his back. His neck rested on her upper arm, and she grinned cheekily, amazed she managed this with minimum protest. He was more shocked at the gesture than anything else. So familiar and yet, a near foreign concept to him. His tail swished comfortably, and for a moment, she'd forgotten he was an angered ghost, seeing him for the panther cub he was.

He glanced at her, a warning in his gaze, but he asked, “And who sang to you?”

“My grandmother, Orianna.”

Years and years, far too many for her to remember the last song her gran sang, but as she held the moon's sacrifice in her arms, Goldie called to the spirits as her gram did almost a century ago.

 _“In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,”_  very word cleared her memory’s dark waters. The melody fanned the fog away, revealing an old woman seated in front the hearth. Age colored her lemon blonde hair silver. Her bosom was thick and blue veined beneath an ailing coat of feathers. She'd lost most of her teeth, each for every child she laid and hatched.

But her voice rang true and stronger than rain, and though her thin arms were flabby and wrinkled, Goldie snuggled in them all the same.

Her grandmother's song clung to her tongue. A song none too appropriate for a child of his age, but she didn’t think he’d understand. She didn’t think he cared. 

It was more about the act, than the content itself.

(Goldie saw an infant, recently hatched. River green blinked weakly; desperately working to imprint her face to memory. Night touched curls were smooth flat on her scalp, sleek and delicate to the touch. Her feathers were a sweet brown, freckled in black and white on her arms and cheeks.)

She was positive he saw it too. This curse was its warden for over five centuries, and at last, revealed a temporary blessing. 

He exhaled sweetly, eyelids meeting. Palpitations drummed Goldie’s tone; they fought a losing battle against an emotion she believed sufficiently buried.

Her turmoil didn't halt his peace. Closed eyes, calm breath Bassam raced to his prison's exit, and as consequence, a strange sheen flickered over his stone skin. 

The sediment texture expanded, giving off a bumpier, less normal appearance than the one he originally provided. It started at the head and passed through the rest of his body, ending at his tail.

Carefully, she deposited the statue off her lap, pushing it gently to the ground, where it stood, curled in a tight, half moon fetal position. On her knees, she stared; unable to weep, gazing at the moon’s monument.

“Good night,” she dusted her knees. Her heart swelled at the sight of the statue, smoother than any gold she’d ever seen. Black marble was its end transformation, and Goldie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

This was unforgivably cruel. She knew she wasn't meant to understand life's peculiarities, or even measure its horror. She had done what she could, and not for the first time, hoped it was enough. 

“Goldie?”

She turned, squinted, “Scrooge?” She inhaled, sharply, stepping in front the statue, “Wait, what are you doing here? How did you get here?”

Scrooge trudged through the sand, now dull and black, closing their distance. “Ae came through the back,” he said. “Had tae make me way through.”

He didn’t stop talking. He spoke of the shoes and clothes, the tools and wallets. A grave, he said. But Goldie didn’t hear any of this, and she didn’t have to. She’d seen enough. All she wanted was something to hold.

She held him. Closing their distance, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close as possible. Tears slipped onto her wrist, and she sniffed, not dismayed at his surprised stiffness in the slightest.

Scrooge raised his hands. Confused. He searched the vicinity, eyeballing the ceiling and ground below, spotting the small clump of black marble standing behind her. He wasn’t positive, but he thought he saw a tail.

“Goldie,” slowly, his arms closed around her back. “Lass, are ye’ okay?”

“No,” she answered. “I just -,” she gasped, “I just -,” the words refused to leave.

“It’s alright,” he finished for her. “Ye're alright,” right hand found the back of her head, making a perfect curve. “We need tae leave,” he murmured, guiltily so. “Something isn’t right.”

Speaking it wasn’t necessary. Its release was immediate, as if a powerful presence had vacated the area. White, thick blood vessels along the walls dimmed, drained to nothing, and without its life force, decomposition began.

“Something is wrong,” the walls cracked. “It’s unstable,” she stepped back, gripping his shoulders as his held her lower back, “We need to go.”

“Ae think yer right.”

* * *

Where the ocean roared its rage, a tsunami claimed their bodies. Clasping the other, the accumulating sand poured up to their waists; they climbed up a nearby ledge that steadily declined. Faced with a sliding wall, it didn’t take them a second to realize what needed to be done. With one last glance, they threw themselves inside the sand, onto the other side where gravity was a fickle companion.

“Scrooge!”

“Goldie!”

They fell aimlessly, as if no sight was in sight, and there wasn’t. Beneath them was colorless, dull sand, and above them, an avalanche debris was determined to accomplish what the waves didn’t. Goldie landed on her back and quickly rolled, gasping, she scrambled to where the posts had been at their arrival, now captive. At a higher point, she looked down below, searching for any sign of him.

“Scrooge,” she shouted. “Damn it, Scrooge, say something! Anything!”

It was like beads were being poured down a funnel, but there was no sight of him. Goldie didn’t want to assume the worst. It rarely helped. Fear was her enemy, and more than anything, wanted to consume everything that made her whole.

Don’t panic, she gripped the edge and dragged herself on top. He’s Scrooge McDuck. He can’t die. Not like this, she presumed this was the moment he’d prove her wrong, having drowned in a rocky grave, but as she strained her vision to detect any oddity, she spotted a flaky white dot struggling against inky waves. Using one of the rabbit’s posts, Scrooge navigated poorly in backward streams. He spat stones out his mouth as he dodged larger ones falling above.

“That damn,” finishing her thought wasn’t feasible. She ran to the edge, getting on her knees as she extended an arm for him to grasp. “I can’t believe of all the stupid -,”

“Ye’ may curse me now,” he shouted. “But Ae knae ye’re glad Ae’m not dead!”

“Not the time, Scrooge!”

An understatement; a slab of wall careened down, striking the crumbling skeleton right on the spine. She pulled him up, and watched in silent awe as the empty shell slipped under. Its end in the abyss was fitting. With a grunt, Scrooge was on semi-stable ground, and they nodded, picking up where they left off.

“We need tae find a way out,” running a corner, they saw several paths clogged. Debris had fallen in front them, another frenzied quake warned them time abandoned them, “And now.”

“Sorry to say,” Goldie spun around, “we don’t have any choices. Any ideas?”

“Ae -,” his shoulders sagged. “Does it look like?”

“I’d hoped!”

“Are ye’ really puttin’ this on me, right now of all places?”

“You’re Scrooge Mc -,” Goldie frowned, staring ahead, though there wasn’t anything ahead. “What is that,” she stepped aside, staring at the floor, “are these…,” hope pounded on her heart, “these are prints!” Not footprints, but prints all the same, leading a trail that ended at the wall. Goldie went forward, so did half of her. She stepped back, smiled, and opened her palm to him, “This is our way out, come on.”

He glanced warily. At her touch, the reassuring smile on her face, but the world was crumbling around them. Their options were few and between. Scrooge clasped, and laughed when she pulled him forward, and downward.

It wasn’t an age appropriate slide. White streaks strung in a circle, and every time she skidded on them, energy ignited in her veins. A ticklish burn pricked her feathers. At every perfect loop made, she cheered, going deeper and lower, or up, she couldn’t tell which direction she was falling in. What she did know was Scrooge’s shouts weren’t far behind. Adrenaline charged their weary hearts, and like children, their laughter filled breaking silence.

“Goldie?”

“Yes,” she cried, laughing.  
“How long do ye’ think it’ll take us?”

“I don’t know,” the white glow rolled to the top of the tunnel, “why do you ask?”

“Um...no reason.”

Goldie looped for the fifth time, and knew instantly he lied. “Scrooge,” she said, flatly. “That is a reason.”

“I know.”

What had fallen above, was crashing below, and faster than they anticipated. An avalanche roared behind them, closing the tunnel as they passed along. Each white glow was snuffed. Goldie swallowed, Scrooge inhaled, but there was nothing else they could do. At the mercy of spirits and gravity, they slid the rest of the way, terrified and delighted. A rush unlike any other, better than gold and money and victory took hold of their spirits. Where screams of horror should’ve shattered their vocal chords, they roared with laughter.

“If this is how we die,” she cried, alight. “I’m happy it’s with you!”

“A morbid gesture, lass,” he chuckled right back. “But Ae agree!”

They didn’t know what caused it to happen, and there wasn’t a moment for them to consider the possibilities. Scrooge accelerated closer to her. His chest met her back. The rest of the way was a straight path, and he secured his arms around her waist, folding his fingers in a stomach burrowed grip. She chuckled, grazing his knuckles with her thumb just to rest her skin on top of his. Terrible, painful, and astonishingly quick deaths were prepared to greet them at the end, but the horror lessened when the specifics were rolled through. Their alternatives were much worse.

None of it mattered. I’m not afraid, she leaned into his chest, and _I’m not going to die_. She tightened her grip, and sighed, releasing her remaining fear. Behind her, his tension responded to her relaxation, and he smiled, resting his beak on her head. Bloody sweat didn’t tickle his nostrils, and he chuckled, amazed at their tenacity.

They were going to die.

And yet, they were bold enough to face death head on.

They didn’t close their eyes, lie back, and wait. Their attention was clear, concentration set, and above, a bright light glowed. Warm, welcoming, they basked in its brilliance, and were resolve to show no fear.

For that reason, the Earth spat them out.

* * *

Like newborn children enclosed in their shells, they were sprung out of the earth. Still grasping each other, they rolled in crisp air until they crashed on top of each other. His stomach was on her back; her chest, the dirt. Laughter bubbled from their coughing groans. He rolled off her, resting on his side.

He chuckled, and so did she.

Silence arrived in typical fashion, deep pants and lazy movements. She changed her position to a more comfortable one, lying next to him. Through an abundant thicket, for more dense than they were able to see, the moon’s gaze hovered near in rainbow shades.

“Wot in,” he sighed. “Ae cannae think of it.”

It was a spectrum of colors; reds and blues, pinks and yellows, and midnight blue.

“I think everyone’s going where they belong,” Goldie heaved. “Don’t think too much on it.”

Amongst the rich colors was one they were familiar with, deeper than the rest, a gorgeous midnight blue sped through, zipping past the others. A sprightly, nimble aura as it ascended. Goldie squinted, still too weak to raise her head for a better view, but this was almost impossible with obscuring trees. It wasn’t necessary. She knew what she saw as the midnight blue raced towards a darker shade of its own. They swirled as one, brightening for several seconds before they faded into night, along with the others.

“A child’s relief is a mother’s joy,” she murmured.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

Crickets chirped. It was quiet in the way woods were known to be. Exhaustion and numbing pain kept them down, despite knowing this was a fatalistic decision to make. Bears, mountain lions, and the ever threatening moose were known for attacking aimless wanderers. It wasn’t a surprise to either of them when they heard an unusual rustle in nearby bushes.

Scrooge’s neck turned first. “Curse me kilts,” he groaned. “We jes survived this attempt.”

“We can go for the next this time.” She paused, “You go for the neck, and I’ll hit their ankles.”

“Sounds like a terrible plan.”

“Because it is a terrible plan.” She got on her feet with some strain, “But we’re winging it now. Can’t afford not to.”

He was at her side. “Fair enough,” he conceded.

Their feet conceded to their commands, and again, they were up but not quite ready for what was to come, though they hoped the same was for their adversary. Scrooge rushed the intruder first, curling his arm around its neck. Goldie ran around, unsure of what to aim, but sticking to the simple parts, like its ankles.

“Um...Scrooge,” she examined the ankle. “Scrooge.”

“Kind of busy!”

“It’s Casey,” she said.

“Aye, a slippery one,” he struggled, slamming to the ground. “Ye’re not goin’ ta’ get the best of Scrooge McDu -,” Goldie went around to grab him by the collar. Jerking him tightly, he released the man’s neck, kicking as he gathered his senses.

“Goldie,” he coughed. “Wot are ye’ doin?”

“Casey,” she repeated, gesturing to the semi-twisted, hatless man. “It’s Casey.”

“Good to know you’re still Scrooge,” patting his chest, he got on his knees. “The lil’ feller was right, I reckon. Gonna have to pay Jack up.”

“Jack?”

At that moment, the tall jack terrier came through, wild and dazed. He passed over Scrooge and Goldie, settling on his formerly lost companion. “Casey, don’t scare me like that,” he barked. “You’re lucky I had this cutie on me.”

“Is that a rabbit,” Scrooge asked.

“What?” He’d forgotten he was holding the miniature creature. “Oh yes,” he smirked. “That nice post lady sent ‘im with us, said his name is Bumper,” he set him on the ground. “Little fella’ had us going around the woods looking for you, claimed he knew where we needed to go.”

“So, you’re all,” Goldie shifted on her other foot, “alive?”

“Yep.”

“No one’s dead.”

Casey and Jack blinked. “No,” Casey answered, “except for Soapy Slick and the others.”

“And where’s Sam?”

Scrooge frowned, but said nothing.

“He’s with the post lady,” Jack repeated. “Trixie.”

Goldie sucked in a deep breath, and clicked her tongue. “Of course, Trixie,” she moved to run her fingers through her hair, and instantly regretted it. The knots and tangles were deep. “Think this little guy can lead us back?”

Casey grinned, “Oh, he can do more than that!”

They pair walked back into the unknown. Goldie and Scrooge shared an uneasy exchange, but what was the harm in a little obscurity? The chances of it being worse than what they’d face wasn’t likely, though it was best to keep their expectations high, just to be sure.

After all, they had laughed in Death's face, and lived to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're reaching the end. With the end comes resolutions, reconciliations, and other things...
> 
> Molly Malone is an actual song, and seems to be the kind of song Granny O'Gilt would sing.


	20. Dried Tears and Restless Beds

“You won't even notice I'm gone,” sung her heart's sad melody. “I'll send letters. You'll know what's going on."

An apple dropped to her right. The toddler on her lap turned, looking at Goldie for approval. Goldie grinned; she assumed this sweetness was simply a child's natural feature. Their possession of this unique softness humbled her, and baffled her too. The toddler had no idea of this. She waited, patting Goldie's breasts to get her attention.

"Ma, Ma," she quacked. "Treat."

Goldie laughed, caressing the child's dark curls pulled in a low ponytail, fastened in an amber rose bow. "Go get it," she said. 

Her delighted squeal met expectations. She scrambled off Goldie's lap, waddling on unsteady feet. She crouched low, plucking the apple off the grass, and spun around. She waddled right back, crawling in her rightful place until her knees burrowed on Goldie's thighs, showing her prize in two, sticky hands. 

“Here, Ma!”

“Thank you,” she wrung an arm around her, setting her down to relieve her discomfort. “You’re far more generous than I am,” she said, bending down to kiss her still baby fat cheeks. Goldie inhaled sweet sweat, a scent which its nugatory added to her satisfaction.

It was more than that. Goldie knew this scent was hers, a distinct scent carried through her skin and clothes, and now, it carried to this child, this tiny creature she had created, laid, and incubated until it hatched. All she had to do was make a swaddle for her mother to carry when she was at work. 

“Orianna Tanith,” she giggled, doing her best to hold the ticklish toddler still. “You are a handful,” she chuckled, reaching for her skirt pocket. “I don't think apples have too much sugar,” she sliced apple in halves, and into thinner slices, for her. “You want a snack?”

Goggling hungrily as she scooted up to her chest, "Yummy, Ma!" Four slices were swiped out her hand and shoved into Tanith's mouth. Her baby teeth did quick work of them, and her brown cheeks assumed a light scarlet blush. Her sweetgrass stare watered happily. Knowing this was the last time she was going to see her sweet stare in person, Goldie frowned. 

“Gran said I can come get you when I make enough money,” changing her position so her back lied on her front, Goldie wrapped her arms around her tinier waist. She felt Tanith's flighty heartbeat drum. “I don’t know when that'll be, but it shouldn’t be long. Heard gold was found in the Klondike, and tons of people are going to move there. And think of it this way, with all that money they’ll be able to save up for a new house, better clothes, food, and school for you and Desmond. If you want to go to school, never understood the appeal, I’ll make it happen.”

Her tone had taken upon a bedtime tone. Soft. Gentle. It reassured, though her heart wasn't absolutely positive. Her foolish sentiments rose to her throat, and Goldie shook her head, scolding herself for these fancies. But what possessed mothers to do what was necessary for their children, she wondered. _Good food._ _Good clothes._ _Great opportunities._ What she did - planned to do was more for the family, but family was Orianna.

Providing for the family meant providing for Orianna, and more than anything, Goldie wanted her happy.  _And safe,_ her grip tightened around the toddler's waist. 

“I will keep you safe,” Goldie said, and kissed her thick mass of curls. “No one will ever hurt you.”

But to accomplish that, she realized, help was necessary.  _Takes a village to raise a child,_ Ma said,  _and the wee wain will need her Ma watchin' over her._

_But I'm her Ma._

_Ack, dearie. She won't know the difference. Look at 'er. Ae'll let the neighbors know she inherited Italian on me side, after all, Desmond ain't that much older than her._

_Ma, I just think._

_If ye were thinkin', my bonnie lass, ye' wouldnae 'ave gotten in this mess. Can't believe her father is who ye say he is - could get a child killed in these times, but she's got a good color. A healthy color. Men like light, pretty lasses._

_Ma, please. She doesn't have to -_

_Don't worry, Ae'll clean this mess, and ye'll send the money._

Goldie pulled her knees up. Holding Tanith close, she buried her memories,  _This is for her. For her._ She needed to do her part, and it was time for her to set everything in motion. Her luggage was packed. Her map was set. She bought her train ticket. She knew her reasons, had accepted them, but this had proven harder than she anticipated. 

Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. Not this time.

She smiled at the turned head gazing back at her, sticky hands wet and empty.

“You want more,” Goldie blinked rapidly, smirking. “Greedy thing,” she moved for the apple, and stared. “Where is it?”

Orianna brought the thick half to her mouth, sucking it loudly.

“Where’d you get that?”

She giggled in between sucks.

Her surprise faded, leaving only joy, and Goldie chuckled, reaching for a hug. “Oh, you little thief,” she kissed and nuzzled her cheek, “that’s my girl.”

* * *

Arriving at Dawson several hours ago, Bumper led them to The Gold Rush Inn, one of the few hotels that survived the fire. Its livable conditions made it an attractive refugee spot, as well as a gathering spot for the mounties.

Their faces when they saw them enter. The gasps. The sudden silence. Goldie didn’t have any questions for them, and neither did the rest of them. Their feet ached, their muscles were gooey. They imagined semi-comfortable beds and stiff pillows; just somewhere to sleep until maybe ten.

“I know you’re tired, but General Steele wants to talk to you,” Jack said.

“Cut it to thirty words or less,” Goldie yawned. “And you’ll have yourself a deal.”

He was in the center of the sitting area. He sat on a large sitting chair, bare chested. His uniform shirt was set aside, folded perfectly, as a nurse tended to his wounds. He nodded mutely to her questions, Did this hurt or Fortunately, the cut isn’t deep. His eyelids twitched irritably, and his head nodded forward before straightening he jolted up in semi-awakeness.

“General?”

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “I am undone, for reasons that are obvious.”

“He was injured in that mighty battle y’all folks had,” the nurse giggled. “Must’ve been a true fright from what he described.”

Goldie, Scrooge, and Casey stared at the nurse whose smile seemed brighter than all the lights in the hotel.

“Hiya, Trixie,” Casey waved.

She giggled, “Good to see you’re alive, Mr. Coot. Bumper did a good job leadin’ ya to yer friends.” She winked at the small rabbit sitting idly to the side, “You can go along with the others. The chef’s making carrot soup. You deserve it.”

The small rabbit squeaked excitedly, rushing out of view and down one of the halls.

Goldie felt a headache coming. “You were a post woman last time,” she pointed at her pale blonde hair. “I don’t want to know where you received your qualifications to be a nurse.”

“A rabbit needs to eat,” she clicked her tongue. “And eh, I got this for ya’.” Satisfied with her bandages, she stepped to reach for a flat, brown bag on the floor behind the chair. “Arrived earlier today, but seeing you guys were exorcising an angry soul, I thought I’d keep it if you came back alive.”

“If,” Scrooge said. “Wait, ye’re the one who sent the rabbit?”

“Did I?” A lace glove covered her red lips, “Oh, you silly miner, little ole’ me couldn’t command a horde of wild rabbits to enter a dangerous labyrinth created by a malevolent yet misunderstood spirit?”

“That's an incredibly specific recollection of tonight’s events,” Scrooge squinted.

She grinned without abandon. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear,” she dug through her bag and produced their envelopes, “here’s yours, Mr. McDuck, and yours, Ms. O’Gilt.”

Goldie took hers. Scrooge took his.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Goldie replied. “It’s finished.”

She faced her, eyelids lowered. “Is it,” she asked. “It’s been there for a long time.”

“You know they were more than that.”

“Eh, but they didn’t like me,” she stepped forward, holding her gaze. The world around them fell to dark silence. “I’m an old rabbit,” she said, softly. “My game is in tricks, and I can do it well.”

“So that meant you sent us for the slaughter?”

She shrugged, packing her medical utensils. “A little shady, sure,” she admitted. “But you’re not dead, are you? I’ve done my work.” She tipped her wig and strutted away, “I want a bowl of carrot soup!” She walked Bumper’s path to the kitchen area, and the group were too exhausted to question it.

Sam had one hand on his right knee, slumped over. The other mounties focused on their tasks, idly standing near in case their assistance was required. Sweat lined his jawline; he wiped the glistening streak with the back of his hand. He gazed at the small group, smiling weakly.

“Again, I was bested by McDuck,” there was no anger in his tone. “Good thing too, is it, Goldie?”

Raised heads, surprise and confusion attempted to strike her nervous. Goldie shrugged, glaring half-heartedly at Scrooge. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth, I tell you,” she replied. “He didn’t even save me.”

“It was a mutual rescue,” he said.

“I did more of the saving.” But she sighed, “If it makes you feel better, I'll let you think it was mutual."

Scrooge scowled, and Sam laughed.

“Yes, you are in good spirits.” He exhaled, leaning back in the chair, “I shall be doing the same shortly. There are some things that I must attend to, so please, the receptionist will have someone escort you to your rooms.”

“Thank you, General,” Jack nodded, turning away. Scrooge nodded and followed, dragging his feet while doing his best to keep his eyes open.

“And you,” Goldie asked. “I think your errands are going to take a lot more than you think if you want the truth of our adventure.”

He rolled his neck, waving her off. “The rabbit’s words do not faze me, nor do they surprise me. It makes sense, and I will take it as it is. I am relieved it was not what I feared, and that the horror has passed.” Lying in the chair, he opened one eye and read her posture, “It has passed, correct?”

“Yeah,” she looked at her feet. “It’s gone. Don't see why it'd return.”

“Hm. And you?”

Goldie frowned, sensing prodding stares all around her. It was frustrating that she couldn’t get Sam alone to ask her questions, but the man was beyond exhaustion. This time she conceded, “I haven’t made my decision yet. I think some rest will make the decision easier.”

“Ah, what a comforting development,” he closed his open eye. “Choose wisely. Whatever decision you make, you will live with it, and it is easier when the decision is the right one."

"Just because it's the right decision doesn't mean it's the easiest, Sam."

"I know, but if it's important to you," he exhaled deeply, "it'll ease your conscience."

Goldie stared, shaking her head, but she wasn't angry. Far from it. She was too tired to be anything but exhausted.

“You are a character," Goldie patted.

“You jest,” he scoffed, playfully.

“Yes, but it is true. Completely frustrating, but no less amusing.”

For a moment, it was just the two of them. Man and woman. Friends. Comrades. They had survived a lot together in the past several hours, and no words were sufficient in describing the changes they were now forced to live with. It didn’t matter. Goldie smiled, shaking her head, and turned in the opposite direction, where Scrooge and Jack waited for the receptionist to retrieve the keys for their rooms.

He looked at her approaching figure. Her stare met his, studying their quiet dispositions and unable to read what went through their minds. But it was easier to outline the differences memory supplied; she got the feeling he was truly seeing her in a better light, better than the light they had underground. She imagined her bruises had worsened, hair was dustier and stick like, and she drew her attention elsewhere, pinching the fountain pen out of its holder.

The receptionist returned to their front holding one key. She pursed her lips sympathetically, “I’m sorry. Since the fire, we’ve had an out pour of people, and the mounties have built their stations. We only have one room left.”

Jack inhaled, sharply. “Scrooge can bunk with Casey and I,” he scratched his neck. “Gonna be a little...off putting, but not tight.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Goldie said, flatly. “Single bed or two?”

“Single.”

Goldie swiped the key out of the receptionist’s grip. She read the numbers, 327, and started her walk in the closest direction. “You’re coming,” she said, refusing to look back.

Scrooge nailed his gaze on her retreating back. Head raised high, shoulders straightened she was a figure of haggard grace, and everyone kept their confusion to themselves. He glanced at Jack and shrugged, more indifferent than anything else. Exhaustion muted his senses, specifically his good sense, and like an obedient dog, pursued her, determined to keep sight of her in a wayward maze.

"Guess I should tell Casey we'll have to keep it down," Jack crossed his arms, frowning. "Good thing we're down the hall from them."

"Yes," the receptionist replied. "Good for you."

* * *

It was the smallest room available. Single bed. On the far side where a great view of the fire’s destruction settled underneath them. Scrooge sunk on the bed, disregarding his dirtied clothes and feet. Goldie grimaced at the sight, more annoyed at the thought of having any sign of their battle evident. She unbuttoned her blouse quickly, “I’ll be in the tub.”

“Take yer time,” he mumbled, resting on his side.

“I plan to.”

He was alone. The door shut closed, water poured into a tub, and he imagined she tested the waters before she slipped in, completely nude. Scrooge was careless. His body ached. His heart was numb. What he wanted more than anything in the world was sleep, to fall into slumber’s oblivion until his senses could endure the day’s sunny glare. As he lied on his side, thoughts of the night’s past hounded him, and he blinked tiredly at the closed door.

He teased if this was the moment he wanted, had waited for. A moment of vulnerability she denied him repeatedly, on land and underground. His disappointment hadn’t faded though his anger soaked into black sand hours ago, and he was more than pleased to leave it there. Where sleep should’ve arrived, tip toeing on waiting eyelids, it settled in the backburner, patiently biding its time as he sorted through his feelings. He knew what he wanted; had always known, somehow. But achieving his desires was another thing entirely.

He heard the water drain. She stepped out, wrapped in a cool towel, and dressed in the dingy clothes the hotel provided. He didn’t go into intimate detail.

“Scrooge,” water ran in the background.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to take your bath?”

“Ae suppose Ae don’t have much of a choice.”

He obeyed, forcing his feet on the floor. He pushed to the bathroom, and saw her waiting above the tub, leaning in to test the water. In a matter of seconds she had cleaned whatever stains had clung to the porcelain, though he spotted some residual brown on the corners. He didn’t mind. His coat dropped to the floor, and he dipped a toe in, testing hot waters.

He eased inside, holding his breath until he was fully submerged. She sat on the side, wearing a modest towel. His neck reclined on the end, he was able to see her far more clearly than earlier, and a lazy smile drew his beak corners.

“Ae suppose Ae should be embarrassed, eh?”

She chuckled, “I think we’re far from that now. Where do you want me to start?”

Scrooge turned to where his back faced her. He lowered his head, somewhat hunched. She gathered the bar of hard soap and face towel, lathering them. He trembled at the warm touch, burning the bruises flourishing underneath his feathers. She passed the towel gently over his feathers, using her fingers to pick solidified dirt off. Bubbles slid down his back, popping and floating on murky water.

“You’re filthy,” she observed. “But alive,” she grabbed his arm, repeating the process on a firmer note.

“Aye, suppose ye’ were the same.” He sent her a wry look, “And ye dinnae want me scrubbin’ ye?”

“No, I didn’t,” she answered.

“Oh?”

“I needed to process what happened,” she admitted, sparing him a quiet look. “A lot went down tonight, and I don't think I get it."

“And so yer scrubbin’ me down?”

“I used to do it for my brother and sister,” she dropped the towel in the water, applied more soap, and wrung it mildly. She grasped his other arm, refusing to absorb his shock, “They’re much younger than I am. Just little kids.”

“Ae’m more surprised ye’ve mentioned ‘em,” he tilted his head. “Were they -,”

Using her free hand, she fished the locket out of his coat and held it up for him to see. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t find out,” she smirked at his dumbfounded gaze. “It’s what I do best,” she clicked the locket open, “and yes, there was opium in there, but I used the last bit on you.”

Scrooge’s shock morphed into annoyance. “Are ye’ tryin’ tae flatter me,” he snapped, without venom. “Recallin’ yer ruthless exploits isn’t on tonight’s agenda.”

“I know,” she grinned, tiredly. “It isn’t why I’m doing this,” she returned the soapy towel, “they are, my family.”

Scrooge washed his chest, peeling away layers of sweat, blood, and dirt. Her reflection was tarred in the mixture, “Yer family? A family of thieves?”

“You could say that. It’s how my parents met. Can’t get a straight story out of them,” she chuckled. “I came soon after, and I lived the happy life of an only child until a few years ago.” The locket was a button in her palm; she turned it upside for him to see. “Desmond is on the left, and there’s Orianna. Everyone calls her Tanith.”

Scrooge scrubbed his face, wiping it clean, and when he gasped, squeezing the towel above his head, he caught sight of the miniature photographs inside. On one side was a curly-haired, beaming boy of about two whose blond curls were reminiscent to Goldie’s chopped style. He contained the sort of happiness reserved for children; innocent, ignorant, and hungry for more, the child’s smile radiated sunshine.

“He looks strapping.”

“Please, he’s more of a momma’s boy than anything else,” she chuckled. “Ma loves to brag about him.”

Scrooged wiped water off his eyes. There was no denial the same blood coursed through their veins; he glanced to the girl on the right. She too was a bright eyed young child, but a sullen glaze covered her gaze. Soft, tentative, her demure smile studied the photographer as she gripped her doll in her chubby hand.

“She looks like ye’,” he gripped the locket, sloshing water over the edge. “But dark hair? Ae never thought Ae’d see the day.”

“A black haired O’Gilt isn’t uncommon,” she chuckled, leaning back on the toilet. She closed the locket, “Pa’s hair used to be blacker than coal, or that’s what Ma said, but you can never trust her tongue.”

“Runs in the family?”

“Yeah,” she smirked, dryly. “It does.”

It was quiet. He soaked in cooling water, and she sat there, modest towel concealing her shape. Her stringy, damp hair clung to sides of her face, and nape of her neck. She ran circles over the locket, wondering what this silence indicated, hoping it’d continue until she gathered the courage to leave.

“Ae wouldn’t mind having it with you.”

“Hm?”

“A family…,” focused on his reflection, she saw the pink rise in his cheeks. “Or a legally binding contract signifying our lifelong commitment to each other. Or maybe half. Half a life, Ae suppose.” He clicked his tongue, “Sounds fair, when Ae think about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“And Ae mean, who’s tae say we’ll live to see a hundred. Granda’ up and died when he was 42.”

“Scrooge.”

He turned, immediately noticing her proximity to him. On her knees, she gripped the tub edge and wore an anxious expression he’d never imagined possible on her face.

“Goldie,” he swallowed.

“Are you sure,” she repeated.

“About what?”

She pulled away, shaking her head. Silent. Unable to must a complaint, or a solid argument, she sat on the toilet, staring ahead, eyes wide. She exhaled, closing her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t make me repeat myself. I can’t.” She lowered her face into her hands, hunched on the toilet, like a bereft child, but closer to a mother whose stable income had recently been lost, leaving her with nothing.

There were no tears. Not for Goldie. But she was lost in a deep, endless spiral that was determined to keep her on rotation. She heard her mother. She saw Tanith. Every failure she achieved rose to her throat, and nails hammered the effect these failures had on the people around her. Some dead. Some alive. Some in between she didn’t know which direction life had planned for them.  _And what about Tanith,_ she bit her cheek.  _What will I do for her?_

Weeping offered solace anger couldn’t provide. Groaning, she ignored wet footsteps hurrying to a nearby towel, and the sound of draining water. His sharp inhale reached her, and maybe, had she been able to, would’ve risen her head in response. But instead, she felt his hands slip onto her cheeks, pulling her head up, where she faced his unusually water blue shade.

“Now, lass,” he said, wiping a stray tear away. “Tell me.”

“You…,” she sighed. “You are an idiot.”

“Ae know. Ae’m a dope, but Ae know what I want.”

“How can you be sure,” she laughed. “You don’t know me.”

 _And you don't want him to._ This was a half-truth. A greater contradiction neither understood sat in the middle. Goldie was resigned; maintaining the lie was more bothersome than she anticipated, but shrouding Desmond and Tanith in mystery was her best chance. She buried their existence in silence where her heart and mind had forgotten they existed in the first place. A lie, a trick, something to soothe her pain.

But in her starved state, her heart barked at her. _Hold on to them,_ the beating flesh snarled at her.  _Don't you dare let them go._

And so, she kept silent. She kept them close, and far...from Scrooge and everyone else.

Her head lulled to the side in his grip. Every fallen tear his thumb wiped clear, and he exhaled.

“Ae do.” He pulled his her forehead to his. “Ye’re Goldie O’Gilt, stubborn, greedy, cold-hearted, and so far from good than Ae’ve ever known.”

“What a charmer,” she griped, emptily.

“And Ae couldn’t ask for more.”

“What?”

His smile drew her attention, and her chuckled at her visible confusion. “Ae mean it. Ae could have a simple life, a quiet life. Ae thought about it, right before finding the nugget. Ae knew it’d change me, but a quiet, simple life isn’t what Ae desire,” he pressed his forehead against hers. His smile strengthened, “Ye may be The Ice Queen of Dawson, but ye’ve warmed my soul. And Ae’ve seen the good in ye, no matter how much ye’ deny it, Goldie.”

What this meant, Goldie didn’t want to talk about. She leaned her head into his palm and sniffed, “You are a dope. All you had to do was say something, anything.”

“Ae know.”

“And you didn’t.”

“And I all I had to do was say I wanted to stay,” she sucked in her breath, hating her weakness quivering her tone. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t,” she held his gaze, “I’m not domestic, Scrooge. I’m not the type to build a family with.”

“Ye’ may think it, lass,” he smiled. “But Ae don’t believe it, not entirely, and if it isn’t what ye want,” he slipped an arm under her knees, “Ae can live with it. As long as Ae have ye, there’s nothing more to ask for.”

Against her wishes, she laughed. “Are you serious,” she rested her head in the crook of his neck. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Aye, it is.” He carried her to bed, “But it got ye’ tae laugh. Isn’t that worth something?”

“I’d rather you make me do other things,” she raised her head, semi-dried tears gleamed her green. “Or I can make you do other things,” she sighed as he deposited on her bed, her arms still clasped around his neck. “Whichever you prefer.”

“Ae thought we were goin’ tae sleep.”

“We’re going to bed,” she replied. “I said nothing about sleep.”

The remained in their position, he hovering above her. His feathers radiated cool heat while she toyed with his fluffy whiskers. Under him, she smiled dreamily, pushing away sensible doubt and reluctance. He was stiff, waiting for her permission, and their gaze held long, steady, waiting for the other to make the first move.

It soon became apparent it wasn’t going to be Scrooge.

“You big dope,” she scoffed, palm gently pulling him down to her.

He exhaled. “Ae know,” he confessed. “But Ae don’t mind being bossed around too much.”

“I think you’re going to get used to getting bossed around a lot,” she whispered into his ear..

When their beaks met, their frigid bones thawed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late arrival. The first half was something I've wanted to write since I realized what the story was going to include. Unfortunately, Tanith is more of a plot device than a full bodied character, but putting Goldie in such a human position is a lot of fun. We can see where she excels and fails. That's the crux of Goldie's character in this verse. She isn't suited for motherhood, but she gives it a hard go.
> 
> A part of her wants to share this with Scrooge. A part of her wants him to be a part of her world, and he is a part of her world. But she has to keep these worlds separate. It's fear and shame. It's a product of her society, her mother, and her insecurities. I really hope I got that out there, and if I didn't, I'll try again next time. Again, thank you for reading, and feed back is much appreciated!


	21. A Backward Reconciliation

It was like a dream.

On her back. Legs parted. Towel on the floor. He was in the middle, not quite straddling her, but in the process of doing so. His left hand cupped her cheek. His beak trailed kisses along her neck, leaving lingering imprints. His thumb circled on her exposed cheek. He hummed. She moaned.

An experience, unlike their previous encounter, left her delirious. When his beak found hers, pressing firmly, passion zipped through him onto her, and she gripped his shoulders, burying her fingers in the blades. She twisted her legs together, applying enough pressure on her clit, but his gentle grip held her thigh, stalling her attempts.

“Not very nice,” he whispered near her ear. “Can’t let ye’ get ahead o’ me.”

Back arched, Goldie groaned. “Then fuck me already,” she demanded, breathlessly. “I don’t want to wait anymore.” His kisses were fleeting. His fingers roamed on her inner thigh. All in all, his work was minimum at best, but her restraint’s gradual decline was difficult to contain. His chuckle was hot on her feathers, and he rested on his side, pulling her to his chest.

“Ye are wonderful,” he murmured. “Ae want to savor every second of this moment,” her insides melted under his stare. This exceeded her expectations. His kindness. His gentleness. Her teeth clamped on her cheek, pushing away threatening thoughts.

“You are a dope,” she smiled. “A sentimental dope.”

“And all for ye, lass.”

She cupped his cheek and met his beak. Soft. Warm. The demand hadn’t lessened, but a sweet wine had slipped in. Their kiss deepened. Scrooge’s touch wandered to her sensitive area where her swollen clit waited. A testy touch over her hood caught her lungs, and she rolled into him, curling forward as trembling breaths dampened his chest feathers.

He was kind. He finger roamed further to where her juices were, and he smirked, satisfied at the liquid pouring on his fingers. She was well lubricated and swollen, but he knew the time wasn’t ripe. He traveled up back to her clit, stroking the hood in feather light circles. Goldie responded as predicated; sharp fists tugged on his chest. Her waist line curved into him, and her heartbeat thudded between them.

“Oh gods,” she whimpered. “Oh, please.”

This was different. Last time was a rush, an uncalculated rush they caved in. Goldie permitted it to happen out of a deep desire for it to happen. She didn’t know what else to be when she smacked her beak into his. She didn’t know what else to do; taking control was second nature to her. As he held her, as his chest pressed on top of hers, she realized the loss of control was far more enticing than holding it.

The sensation awakened for a second time. She arched forward, yielding to his touch, but trusting him to care, and knowing he did. He chuckled. His fingers pursued their kind assault up until her clit’s swollen shape satisfied him. A small puddle formed on the blanket. He grinned, moving his finger until he reached her opening. He raced her pussy, clicking his tongue, and slowly entered her. Her walls closed around him instinctively; slick and ready.

“Oh gods,” she moaned. “Scrooge, please.”

He smirked. This was the sound he enjoyed most. Sweet abandon released euphoria in ways she refused to fathom until the moment they happened, and she closed her eyes as Scrooge entered a second fingers, teasingly. Waiting several seconds, up to the moment when she gently rubbed her knee along his groin, he stayed still.

“You’re terrible,” she murmured. “A real miser,” she gasped as he began to move.

His deliberate movements were time according to her will. He arched his fingers, reaching the top of her walls, and Goldie sucked in a breath, caving in to him. She no longer gripped his shoulders, but was on the edge of ripping out his feathers. The sharp pain tingling on his fingers was no more annoying than a gnat.

He moved deliberately, timing a leisure pace. Goldie sucked in a breath, caving in to him just as his fingers arched up. Her walls responded in joy, clamping completely around him, and Scrooge shivered, the sensation driving into his bones. This wasn’t the moment he worked for. He calmed his arousal, reminding himself this was his opportunity to show her what he was capable of.

The night in the cabin didn’t count, or the night before their departure. This was different. He held her firmly, calming his steady hold as she curved and arched and gasped, praying for more and more.

“Scrooge,” she choked. “Scrooge, please.”

He smirked, enthralled at the sight of blossoming red along her clavicle; sweat clung to her feathers. Her grip on his shoulders relaxed, and she let them fall on his chest. Scrooge shifted their positions, pushing up the dashboard, giving her access to lie on his chest completely. With this improved angled, he reached deeper than before, pushing against a small bump he didn’t think twice about.

What mattered was the way she thrust against his fingers, and the way she moaned his name, each call followed by a plea. Every time she tried to bring her touch to her clit, he tapped her wrist, a silent reminder of who was in control.

“You bastard,” she panted, teeth gritted.

“Ae know,” he kissed her temple. “Isn’t it fun?”

She was at his mercy, which wasn’t merciful in the slightest. Her convulsions had increased in the passing minutes, and though a thorough rub would’ve done the trick in a matter of seconds, if done properly, she felt a storm incoming. Her eyes rolled back, and thrusts became more sporadic, unable to keep up. This was it. She was going to lose the battle of wills, and spill herself over his fingers.

Until she didn’t.

It was a tricky move, rolling him on his back. He had sufficiently trapped her against his chest. Fingers fucking her while he held her wrist in a deceptively soft grip, but this was enough for her to maneuver around him. And with great wanting, that space hadn’t been filled between her legs, she slipped out of his restraints and met his front.

He glanced down at her, confused, and a little impressed. She smirked at him, eyebrow arched in a half moon, and she didn’t give him her chance to ask, or think. She pushed him down on the mattress and climbed on top, laughing as his erection made its appearance. It slid underneath her, an average dick she was pleased to see again, and she continued to grind, coating its hardness with her fluids.

“Goldie,” Scrooge groaned, covering his eyes. “Lass, Ae won’t last.”

“Oh, you will,” she leaned to his ear, “and let me see your face, Scroogey. It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.”

He heard the smirk in her voice, and shivered. He lowered his hand, doing his best to ready his senses for what he was to see, and felt life spill out of his lungs. Her stare held him, held him in a way his touch had attempted to do with her. Green, a deeper green than the abundant forest leering on the outskirts of town, chuckled at him, and he swallowed, then groaned.

“Good,” she said, softly. She kissed his cheek; sweet and chaste, that made him whine. Goldie raised her hips, grabbing his dick to guide it to her.

She lowered her bottom carefully. For once, there was time. Not a lot of time, but just enough to complete what needed to be done. She tossed her head back, mouth opening as her walls jirated to accommodate his length. It’d been more than three days since their last contact.

Inch by inch she squatted, until she rested an inch above his hilt. Using her strength she stayed above him, a glass a quarter empty. Her knees quaked. Her breath hitched. Scrooge sent a glare at her, impatience apparent.

“Donnae tell me ye’re goin’ tae make me beg.”

“No,” she answered. “But I like the idea.”

She sat upon him, completely, and an airy sigh escaped. Her half-lidded gaze blurred. She smoothed her hands across his chest, teasing the feathers as he did seconds earlier. She heard him gulp, leaving fingerprints on her hips as his hold tightened. She steadied her breath, knowing relying on her erratic heartbeat was a fool’s move, and she threaded her fingers close to his center.

“Hey,” she panted.

“Hey.”

It was all she needed, this quiet exchange. Goldie rolled her hips, and they shared a tight gasp, alarmed and euphoric at the electric sensation running up their spine, just to climb down again. Breath hitched in their chest, Goldie repeated her sharp, slow rolls, picking up speed as her breasts bounce. Scrooge groaned underneath her, forcing his way up into a semi-sitting position; their chests were on top of each other, her breasts rolling on his. He removed his right hand to fall near her exposed clit, where he rubbed the swollen piece to her delight.

“Scrooge,” she rocked, burying her face into his neck. “Just like that, please, please don’t stop.” She grippe his head, threading through his hair, laughing into it. Her overwhelmed senses were beginning to blend together; touch and smell were one. Her sight and ears frolicked hand in hand. There was more going on, but she concentrated on her excited rolls and his sharp thrusts, hitting at her a semi-rapid pace. Juice flung on their thighs, seeping into their lower abdomens. Its slithery touch sent shivers exploding at their fingertips and toes, and she clasped her arms around his neck, and he ran weary fingers through her messy, partially damp hair.

“Look at me,” he said.

“No.”

“Goldie,” he tightened. “Please.”

She did.

What she saw forced a sob out of her mouth. It was strangely simple. His stare was intense and normal, nothing extraordinary about it, but when Goldie connected to him, something snapped inside. Because this simple look, this ordinary, below average stare read three words she never believed she’d ever feel in her life. And for a reason she didn’t understand, they were there. His hair threaded hand cupped her cheek, and their foreheads met. He smiled at her, his humble, lopsided smile, and she returned it wholeheartedly, reaching that phantom peak she didn’t think was ever going to arrive.

His hit first. He splattered inside her, an explosion of white, and she felt his twitches as her convulsions picked up pace, hurriedly wrapping around him like a tight, deep cavern.

“Goldie, my darling,” he whispered, caressing her hair.

“Oh, Scroogey,” she whispered back, suddenly quiet as that final tightness stilled around him, panting like a sweating dog. “Oh Scrooge,” she kissed his forehead, cheeks, sweetened at their faint pink blush. Her last roll settled in his lap, dick flaccid inside her. She rose gently, setting him free, and he kept his hold around her waist. He ruffled his beak on her breasts, preening frazzled feathers aside, and she giggled. It’d been a long time since she had a proper preening. Scrooge chuckled, delighted at the sound of her girlish giggles, and pulled her down onto the bed.

He grabbed the blanket, wrapping them together, and continued his work, relieved to have her against him. Her laughter bubbled brightly, like a child’s, and she curled around him, leg hitched up to his waist.

“Scrooge,” she gasped. “Please, goodness, it tickles!”

“Aye, ye’ like it!”

“Stop,” she pushed him away, keeping her legs around him. “You idiot.”

“Yer idiot, lassie,” he grinned, crookedly. “And ye’ cannae deny it.”

Goldie lied there, scrawled at an awkward position, and rolled her head to the side. “No,” she said, softly. “I can’t, and I won’t, this time,” she brushed his hair fringe. “Are you sure,” she asked.

Scrooge sighed with a sadness not unknown to them. “Ae am,” he took her hand into his. He kissed her bruised knuckles, softened from a hot bath, “But Ae’m willing tae take what yer offering, and if this is it, Ae’m happy.”

She chuckled, and closed their distance with a snuggle. She didn’t want to cry, not again. She’d done too much of it, and she thought she’d emptied her eyes, though this was a comforting lie she told herself. She caressed cheek as he kept her hand in his grip, rubbing gently over her knuckles, and they lied there, facing each other, until sleep arrived. Heavy eyelids met at last, and their shared exhales echoed in the quiet room.  
As he breathed softly, at peace and rest, Goldie scooted closer to him, relieved at his touch on her skin. Yeah, she thought as her mind slipped into the unconscious realm, this may be better. I can get used to this.

* * *

Dawn’s early rise wasn’t as early as it felt. It arrived at the usual time with sunlight peeking through the curtains, tickling the easy sleepers awake. Scrooge stirred first, dream memories scratched flat. When his mind pushed away sleep’s fog, memories of the night’s events struck him, and he smiled. She remained asleep beside him, not a dream, not a phantom teasing him with far away possibilities. She slept soundly, quietly. Hair tousled, dark lines curved under her sleeping eyes, she was comfortable, and a sight to behold.

Quiet. Peaceful. This was all theirs. Scrooge pulled away at last, and sighed. There was work to be done. He walked walked around the bed and grabbed his discarded coat off the floor. He passed the bathroom when he heard three sharp knocks. With a groan he went to the door, half-aware another trap could be waiting on the other side, but when he opened the door, he was silenced.

“Food service,” the young man grinned. An elaborate tray was wheeled between them, and from what Scrooge smelled, the food underneath was well cooked and ready.

He inhaled the aroma and shook his head, frowning. “Ae didnae order food service.”

“It’s on the house,” the young man answered. “The General wanted a great meal for Mr. McDuck and Ms. O’Gilt.” He pushed the tray forward. Scrooge stopped it with a single hand.

“Scrooge,” Goldie murmured in bed. “What are you doing,” she rose, leaning on her elbow, “is that breakfast? Bring it in.”

The young man couldn’t see what Scrooge did, but he seemed to understand. His eyes widened briefly, and he nodded, stepping back. “This is the second time this has happened,” he grumbled. “I always come at the wrong time.”

“No need tae worry about it.”

“Thanks, but Mr. Coot -,” he stopped short, remembering himself, and smiled dismissively. “Nevermind, have a great day, sir.” He pushed the cart to Scrooge and walked away. Scrooge wheeled the car at the door, closing it, and wheeled backwards, grinning ear to ear. She was seated in bed, blanket at her waist while her cheek was snuggled on her fist.

“I’m starving,” she clapped, throwing the blanket off her. “Tell me there’s blanket.”

Her nudity released a flush down his neck. It was different to night where he simply squeezed and slapped, knowing it was there but respected the night’s obscurity. In day, she was open and free. He was able to count every ruffled feather on her bed, spot fading bruises, and the plump roundness of her bottom, where her tail wagged excitedly as she lifted the silver top, forced him to swallow his uneasiness.

“Porridge,” she inhaled. “And bacon,” she snatched three slices, stuffing them in her mouth.” She didn’t wait for him to join her, grabbing a bowl and two additional slices with a fried egg. “I can’t promise I won’t come back for seconds, Scrooge.” She carried them to the small table near the wall. Comfortably seated, she raised her head at him, scoffing, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Aye?”

“You doddering old man,” she laughed. “Come have breakfast with me. I’m too tired to fight you. Too tired to steal from you.” She plopped her fried egg and two slices into her porridge, “You did get your things back from Casey, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he wheeled the cart to the table. “And Ae’ve checked it three times. Ae’ll know if ye’ve taken my gold nugget.”

“Worry about that later,” she said, sentences muffled with a mouth full of food. “Eat.”

Scrooge did as she said, stomach empty and smile present. “Alright, m'eudail,” he said.

Goldie quirked an eyebrow at him, doing her best to feign ignorance, but she didn’t need a translation to understand what was spoken.

* * *

“Ae’m almost afraid to open it,” he held the envelope in his right hand while his left spooned his porridge. “Five years is a long time to go unheard from.”

It was a quiet meal. No shouts. No screams. Not a single accusation of theft or preparation of their next adventure. They simply sat and ate, enjoying each other’s company. He was a messy eater. She was messier. He wiped her beak with a napkin, mildly scolding her, “Mummy would have a field day with you.”

“No more than my own Ma,” she griped, softly. “Hate to think what they’d say of me now,” she added, sipping her black coffee, “She’d have a lot to say, and don’t want to get into my Pa.”

“Daddy,” Scrooge scowled. “Ack, he’d have a field day!” His scowl fell on the bed stand where their letters were, “He’s goin’ tae have a field day. All this time, and I have nothing to show for it!”

Goldie set her cup down. “What,” she asked. “You have a gold nugget. You’re probably the richest duck in the country now.” She leaned in her chair, arms crossed, “My Ma would be elated. Wonderin’ about all the things she’d buy; dresses, shoes, and oh, the neighbors,” she added with a dramatic hair toss.

Scrooge chuckled. “Aye, ye’d think,” he sucked in his breath, retrieving the letters. “But Fergus McDuck isn’t a sensible man,” he returned, grasping the letters. “A list of complaints,” he handed Goldie hers, “and a list of everything Ae haven’t done. Same old, same old.”

Goldie read the front of the envelope. The familiar print stood out, as did the address. “I get that,” she said, quietly. “I had a bunch of letters Ma sent. Wondering where I was, what I was up to, when was I going to send more money, and I sent enough,” she ignored Scrooge’s pointed stare. “How about this,” she offered, “we open them at the same time.”

“What?”

“Same time,” she repeated. “It’d be like ripping the band-aid off, and we’ll be doing it together.”

Scrooge meditated on this, and shook his head, laughing gently. “Alright,” he dug his finger under the glued flap, “we’ll do it at the same time.”

“On the count of three,” she did the same.

“One,” he started.

“Two,” she added.

"Three.”

They tore the envelopes and pulled the letters out. Goldie’s eyes widened, This isn’t Ma’s handwriting. It certainly wasn’t. This handwriting wasn’t nearly as neat or precise. Large loops. Squiggly lines. She covered her mouth, feeling a knot expand in her throat. It was legible, yes, but painfully so. She almost wish she had a magnifying glass, but she knew she’d make through it. There was no other option.

_Dear Goldie, I am now 6 years old, but that isn’t why I’m writing you. Pa said I should, ever since that nice post lady came to the house, and with Ma workin’ with the cows, he said it was ‘pertinent’ I get it to you quick while she was busy. The nice post lady said she’d come back to send our letters back._

_Hi Goldie! It’s me, Desmond! I’m 8, and we had to kill Roosta the Rooster._

_We didn’t kill Roosta. He got caught in the fence and strangled himself. Pa didn’t want him buried on the farm, because of foxes, so we ate him._

_It was us! We made the fence. I was very sad to see him go. He was the prettiest chicken._

_Desmond, he was a rooster, but yes, he was very pretty. And he was a good protector. He watched for his hens, and loved Desmond the most._

_Ha! I told you!_

_Yes. Like I said, Pa said we should write this in a hurry before Ma gets back, and I wanted you to know that I know the truth, now._

_I told her, Goldie! I heard Ma and Pa fightin’ over it. But just because I’m her uncle (not her brother), doesn’t mean we can’t be brother and sister. This just means I have more responsibilities!_

_I doubt that. Pa wanted us to tell you about the schoolhouse. Ma wrote about it in some of her letters, and I think she came across it very well. I love school. I love science and counting and all the pretty books. But...it’s a little scary, sometimes._

_Someone -_

_No, Desmond. School is very nice, and we like it a lot. I just wanted you to know that, and I hope, wherever you are, that you’re happy. I don’t remember much about you. I don’t know what you look like, but Pa says you’re a mighty pretty lady and you loved me a lot. That you wanted what was best for me, to protect me, and if this letter gets to you, I think that’s really swell of you. You may not be like most Moms, and that’s okay!_

Goldie swallowed. Hand covering her mouth, she forgot Scrooge was in the room with her, probably watching her developing expressions.

_Pa takes us out to get candy sometime! And we play with the neighbor kids too!_

Ma doesn’t let me eat any candy, or treats, but Pa always sneaks me in and fusses at her. He says she isn’t being fair.

Goldie frowned. This wasn’t the man she had grown up with. From what the children wrote, her father sounded downright docile, which had never been Osheen O’Gilt. Hard. Stubborn. Ruthless. And one of the best thiefs Dublin had known.

Ma’s going to be comin’ home soon, so we have to go.

_We miss you, Goldie._

_We do, even though we don’t know you. I like to think we will know you, one day._ _Pa always says we need to flip the script to get the bigger picture, and that’s what I wanna do when I grow up. Flip the script. I love you, Momma, and if you ever get away from that miner, please, can you send more candy?_

Goldie turned the letter over and stared. _Flip the script._ This wasn’t the time to rely on her feelings. She got off from the table and started searching through the doors. Flip the script...I need a pencil. A pencil. Anything with a tip on it. Scrooge was stuck on his reading, though he raised his head in her direction, but she didn’t have time to think about him. She opened one of the bed stand drawers and shouted a little. She pressed the paper on the stand’s flat surface and scribbled on the back.

“Flip the script,” she murmured. “Pa would always say that when he needed to send something off to his brothers. Meant to be discreet, or he had something on the underground he didn’t want anyone else to know about.” She brushed the pencil tip across the paper, and letters appeared. A single sentence. Goldie didn’t have time to gasp, or even breathe; she raised the letter to the night.

 _“It isn’t safe anymore, mo stoirín,”_ her father’s simple script was plain to see. _“It’s time tae come home, and take yer wee wain away from this.”_

Goldie could’ve thrown up.

“Curse me kilts.”

“What?” She folded the letter, pressing it to her breast. “What did yours say,” she found her pants and blouse. “Did Fergus lose his mind over the dry well?”

“It’s me Uncle Jake,” he blinked, head pulled back. “Reads there’s a family affair roaring, and Mummy has gone to her room, refusin’ tae come out. Hortense and Matilda have tried everything, nothing’s worked. Hopes all is well, and he cannae wait tae see me.”

“A family affair,” she buttoned up her blouse, pressing the letter in her back pocket. “Sounds fancy.”

“Yeah,” he looked at her. “What of you?”

“Oh? Mine?” She rolled her eyes, “Ma complaining about the wee wains getting into her things, and when will the money get in. Pa worried about costs and all.”

Scrooge folded his letters, shaking his head.

“Family,” she said.

“Family.”

“I don’t think I’ll be introducing you for a while,” she chuckled, arm resting on the back of his chair. “Lets admit it’s for the best.”

“Mummy would like ye, at least. Matilda and Hortense will fancy ye’ too. A city gal in their opinion,” he offered, hopefully. “Ye can still come with me.”

Goldie wanted to, she did. She realized this instantly; meeting his family at his side, her hand holding his, that sweet flutter in her chest. She wanted it all. But then she remembered the letter, and the urgent message her father managed to send to her, under her mother’s nose.

You can tell him, she stared at the top of his head. He’d understand. He’d understand.

She looked away to the floor. It isn’t just him, she chewed her cheek. It isn’t just about him. She exhaled and walked to where her belongings are, “The train is leaving later today, and I don’t plan to miss it.”

“I know.”

“And you shouldn’t either,” she slipped her pack on. When she turned to him, she was shocked at the dour expression on her face, “Oh, don’t give me that look.” She returned to him, cupping his cheeks, “Do you really think this is going to be the last time we’re going to see each other?”

There were tears in Scrooge’s eyes, and she wiped them away, pressing a kiss at the corner of his eye. “No, lass,” he admitted. “It’s jes...it was wonderful to dream, of what could’ve been.”

Her smile was sad, soft. “Yes, yes, it was,” she confessed. “And we can still dream it, even when we’re apart.”

His hand fell on hers. She felt his pulse on top, meeting hers with every beat. When he looked at her, ready to cry at their departure but still hopeful, she felt her own tears build beneath the surface.

But Glittering Goldie was tired of crying.

* * *

He watched the train fade in the distance. He didn’t want to join her, and knew it was in their best interests their separation remained as amicable as possible. No one knew when their paths would meet again. He hoped it’d be soon.

Another wouldn’t arrive until that evening, and he wasn’t the type to wait for long. He’d make his way to the next town, and he prepared for the long journey.

“Sorry about that,” Casey said, standing at his side. “Thought you two were going to make it.”

“Who said we didn’t,” Scrooge replied. “And what of ye and Jack?”

“Um!” He blushed, rubbing his hat’s edge thoughtfully. “Why, he’s coming with me to Duckburg, to meet Elvira and the kids. My sister won’t mind a bit, and Humperdink’s always been a good fellow. We’ll be passing through until he finishes his manuscript.”

“Oh?”

“Working title is Call of the Duck,” Casey crossed his arms, “still tryin’ to convince him to stick with Call of the Wild, sounds more adventure-y.”

They laughed that special laugh shared between good friends. Scrooge patted his shoulder, “Yer the purest soul Ae’ve met here, Casey, take care.”

“Same to you,” he tipped his hat. “Can’t believe I carried that thing for the longest time,” he pointed to Scrooge’s bag. “I don’t know how you did it.”

“This,” Scrooge smirked. “It holds everything worth holding,” he set it on the train station floor. “Pots, pans, deed to my claim, and my -,” he frowned, “now, Ae know it was in here. Casey? Did anyone touch this bag?”

“No!” He glanced down, “I kept it near me at all times. Never laid my eyes off it for one second, even when I was running from the undead.”

Scrooge burrowed all the way down to his bag until his fingers scratched metal chain locked around rough paper. Confused, and growing angrier with every passing second, he fished the bound papers, seeing it tied to a flimsy chain and a dark green locket. “What in the name,” he glared. “Two of ‘em? What? Who? Why?”

“Seems they’ve got your name on it, and this one is just a note.”

Scrooge forced the note free, ignoring the locket he knew had been empties, and read red.

“That swindling snake,” he roared. “How did she? Ae thought - she said,” he felt a bigger burn in his chest than he’d ever felt in his life, but there was more in there than he knew. After his initial rage passed, he simply stared, rereading the note.

 _“It’ll never be easy for us, so how about we make it fun? Our next adventure will end with you getting this back. Think of it as you sharing a little nugget of your heart with me. Take the locket as a token, and a reminder.”_  
    _-Xoxo, Goldie_

Scrooge laughed.

“Scrooge?”

He laughed, heaving over.

“Oh gosh, he’s lost his marbles.”

He laughed his remaining anger out, holding his stomach as he crouched to the floor. When his last laugh poured out, he stood, smile bright and spirit lifted. His anger had dissipated in an instant, replaced with determination. “That rakish rogue,” he sighed, dreamily. “Aye, Ae’ll find her, and get me goose egg nugget back.”

“Wait,” Casey gawked ahead in the direction the train pulled off in, “She didn’t.”

“Oh, she did,” Scrooge chuckled. “Ae didnae expect her to turn loose so soon, though.”

Casey didn’t understand. “Y’all some oddballs for sure,” he pouted. “Never know which way you’re going, nor do you care.”

“Aye,” Scrooge said, returning the last of his belongings back into his bag. He slipped the heavy thing on his shoulders, vigor renewed, and beamed at the rising sun. “Jes the way we like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the smut was harder than usual. I knew where I want to go, but not how it was going to go. I knew they were going to have sex. That was a part of it, a major part of it, but it was supposed to be more affectionate and less angry. More intimate and less awkward. Scrooge and Goldie in DT17 canon are openly affectionate with each other, when it's just them. It doesn't appear to be an issue of whether or not they'll admit their affections, because they already have.
> 
> With family, they can relate to similar dynamics, but mainly, all families are batsh** insane, especially theirs. There are clues as to what occurred in Goldie's family and Scrooge's too. You're more than free to speculate. The epilogue is completed and will be posted shortly. Thank you!


	22. 2018: Vehicular Enchantments

She was going to be late. She was going to be late on her first day. Dickie didn’t want to know what was worse; her tardiness or the day of her tardiness. It didn’t matter, she decided as she skipped steps. She’d make it to her new job in one piece, and that was that. Downstairs, her gaze twitched in every direction, and she pulled her phone from her vest pocket, tapping the messages icon. Headmistress Wolfsbane told her their special services driver would arrive thirty minutes ahead schedule.

“But have they driven through Duckburg morning traffic,” Dickie groaned, rereading the headmistress’ message.

“Ms. Con Vit, your driver shall arrive at 6:30 a.m. promptly,” read Headmistress Wolfsbane’s sharp tone. Dickie winced. It was 6:45 a.m. There was no way she’d make it to the school on time; the vision of tight-packed, slow moving cars made her stomach plummet in knots. Standing on the sidewalk, not a great distance from the bus stop down the way, Dickie searched for any sign of the driver’s car or face. She returned to the rest of the message, double checking she hadn’t missed any pertinent details, as her mother would say, and knew she hadn’t.

She was foolish to hope. Headmistress Wolfsbane wasn’t a forthcoming woman.

But still, waiting around doing nothing wasn’t an option for her. She inhaled and returned to her phone, hoping she wasn’t sweating buckets. She tapped her foot on the concrete, phone pressed to her ear as she counted the rings. Five in total, and on the sixth, someone picked up.

“Good morning, my sweet egg,” came her mother's sing-song greeting. “And how are you on this marvelous morning? Have you started your new teaching job?”

“Mom.”

“Uh oh, I know that sound.” Dickie heard a chair scratching along the floor, and crossed her arm under her elbow, “What’s going on? Did you blow something up again? Was there another mole man invasion?”

Dickie made a sound caught between a groan and whine. “That would’ve been easier,” she began to pace. “My ride hasn’t shown up, and I need to be at work for 8:00 a.m.”

“Your ride? Why didn’t you take the subway?”

“The school sent a driver to my address to drop me off,” she threw her hand up. “I mean they were supposed to, and even if they did arrive on time, I don’t know what their car or face look like.”

“Sounds like a Driver.”

“A driver?”

“Nevermind. Dickie,” her mom said, calmly. “Call the school and ask for their assistance. I don’t think they won’t reprimand you for someone else’s error,” a sharp whirl was heard in the background, crushing of ice and fruit. She was making her morning smoothie. “You still have Wolfsbane’s written statement notifying you of this pick up.”

“Yes, but -,”

Her mom inhaled, sharply, and Dickie chewed her finger tip. “Dickie,” she repeated, softly. “What did you do?”

“I have the written statement,” she defended. “It’s just a copy...a photographic copy...of the one that was torn apart during a brief excursion in New Orloons.”

“There are numerous questions I want to ask, but I am going to keep this short,” her mom's usual restraint held a little bite today. She mustn't have had her morning smoothie yet. “Why would you bring something of that much importance on a trip? And who accompanied you? I’m sensing this wasn’t a Dickie, Olympia, and Netunia special.”

Dickie's tongue kept to the top of her mouth. She stopped pacing and rolled on her heels, wondering what feasible lie she could cook up in less than three seconds. Her mom wasn’t an idiot nor was she as oblivious as she'd like her to be.

“Fine,” she slapped her forehead. “Yes, Gigi may have taken us to find the black pearl horde of the rougarou, but really Mom, all we did was party for Mardi Gras at the French Quarter.”

“Of course you did,” she felt her mom’s eye roll. “Just answer this, sweetie. You used condoms, lube? Did you get tons of beads? Oh Dickie.”

“Mom!”

“If there’s one thing I’ve taught you, Dickie, it’s how to dislocate and relocate your shoulders without causing any damage while escaping surprised bondage, and safe sex.”

“Those are two, technically three things.”

“And can be combined into one situational thing.”

“Merciful moon,” Dickie rubbed her temples, staring at her feet. “I’m not having this conversation with you, again.”

“Don’t let Gigi hear that,” she sipped her smoothie. “You know how she feels about lunar praises.”

“And you'd think she would've considered that before naming you Tanith," Dickie retorted. "A moon goddess...who accepted child sacrifices."

"Well, they didn't know that at the time," she said. "And besides, I may be Orianna Tanith to the world, Tani to your father, but I'm Mom to you," hearing her laughter cut some of the edge off Dickie's anxiety. “Listen, my sweet egg,” she exhaled. “Just call the school and explain an error was made. Trust me, in that school’s history worse things have happened.”

Dickie chewed her cheek. It was the only feasible option available, even though the thought of it made her nauseous. “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll call the school, and hopefully, they won’t fire me on the spot.”

“It won’t be the first time.”

“Yeah,” she kicked a stray pebble, “but I had a good feeling about this place. It’s special. The curriculum, the teachers, students, and just...if you had been there, Mom, you’d be amazed.”

“So, I’ve heard,” the smile was there, just as she sipped her smoothie. Dickie heard the soft clink once she set it down on the counter again. “You’re young, and believe me when I say this school isn’t the only one in existence. There are countless schools in Asia, Europe, even here in the states. You were in New Orloons, they are mad about that there, had had one of the firsts in the states, and Massachusetts has a renowned program.”

Dickie giggled, chest light, “You’re right.” As an afterthought, “Is Gigi back yet? Haven’t heard from her in a while.”

Her mom started to answer when someone on the side called to her. She moved the phone away away, but her voice still projected clearly in the receiver. “I know. I know. That whole McDuck-Glomgold-Owlson board meeting is today. I know. I can’t believe I was tasked with setting that up.” Sighing, she returned to Dickie, “I don’t know when she’s coming back, but your uncle called a few days ago. He said he paid her for her services and sent her on her way.”

“After she stole his informant’s star sapphire ring.”

“You know about that?”

“She made it hard not to,” Dickie chuckled, almost at a complete ease. “She called to gloat about it. I doubt he's worried about that. Didn't she pluck his last informant?”

"Yeah, she did. He won't let me hear the end of it," her mom groaned. "But he sounded unusually cautious. It's understandable when you've angered your network, but -," she clicked her tongue and laughed. "I wouldn’t worry about it. She comes in and out all the time, and with the hotel franchising her 'frequent' visits are finally just that."

“Are you sure you can't just say he’s paranoid?”

“Dickie,” her mom chided. “That’s rude and unfair.” As an aside, spoken in motherly fashion, “And don't you have other things to worry about, like a certain phone call?”

“Right.” Dickie frowned, anxiety returned, but she admitted her mom was right. Their call ended on a cheerful note with warm ‘I love yous’ and a reminder the world wasn’t going to end due to her failure at keeping (another) job.

“I know one guy who went through five jobs in one day,” her mom reassured. “And he keeps going back for more.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dickie ended the call. “It isn’t the end of the world.” She exhaled the deep breath locked in her lungs. She slipped her phone back in her vest pocket and shifted her courier bag on the other side, and stared into an empty street that wasn’t empty anymore.

Not that it was the last time she saw it. There were cars, but they were simple, modern, everyday sort of cars. The cars she saw on her route to university, or to the corner market down the way. This car directly across from her was an older checker taxi-cab with an extended hood and shorter trunk. Its engine revved quietly, and Dickie stepped forward, straining to see through tinted glass. But she couldn’t see anything, not even the driver’s figure.

“Um…,” she approached the passenger window. “Excuse me,” she moved to tap the window, “are you with the -,”

“Good morning, and please, don't tap the window. It’s made of moon gold microfiber and is extremely poisonous to Earthers.”

Dickie jumped back, and stared at the opened driver’s door. “Oh my gosh, are you serious,” she asked.

“Oh, no, I’m like a fish,” the woman said, heels clicking as she made a half-circle around the car hood. “I hate when people tap the windows.”

Dickie laughed uneasily. “So, um...you’re going to take me where I need to be,” she swallowed, nervously. “Because you’re late.”

“I am?” The woman stood in front the back door, and smiled a crooked smile. “I’m a Driver, and we’re always on time.” The door opened behind her.

“You didn’t open the door.”

“I didn’t.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening.”

The woman chuckled, and if Dickie wasn’t in a rush, her warm laughter would’ve relaxed her. For now, she was at a loss of what to think, or say, or do. Her polka-dot blouse, mary-jane heels, and pencil dress contradicted everything Dickie knew about taxi drivers, even the Dabbling Drivers she relied on every now and then after one drink too many with Neptunia.

The woman didn’t frown or indicate any sign of annoyance. Her fingers tapped in the patient manner of an university professor.

“Ask yourself, Ms. Con Vit,” she said, slowly. “Is this the weirdest thing to ever happen to you? If the answer is yes, you should probably leave and contact a Dabbling Driver. I’m positive they’ll get you to your academy in an hour and thirty minutes, charging you additional for longer routes. If no, then take a chance, and make yourself at home.”

With that, she departed to her driver's seat, relaxed and at a complete calm. 

Dickie blinked, standing like an awkwardly positioned mannequin. 

“Okay, more than I expected, but,” she closed her eyes. “I have a student loan payment coming out later this month.” The rougarou incident was in the top fifty of 'Weirdest Things to Happen to Dickie Con Vit,' far below No.25 Netherworld II "Shores of Mictlan." The Driver didn't need to know that. 

She slid on soft, leather seats, and did what The Driver requested. Cool air under her feet, making her comfortable, and she sighed, inhaling an aroma that made her pause. It tickled her nostrils, and she turned, confused rather than stunned. When she glanced ahead, she met The Driver's teasing wink in the rearview mirror.

“Bánh xèo,” she inhaled, chest swelling. She didn't want to cry, and laughing seemed ridiculous. Choosing a third was easier than she thought, and she crossed her arms, "Unless you went out to eat, I don't see how this is possible, but it'd explain your tardiness."

“I had a Dutch baby five hours ago, still settling,” she patted her stomach. “I turned on the sentimental AC. It helps new clients adjust to my cars interdimensional settings.” She turned around, “And don’t forget to buckle up. Safety first!” She pointed to the seat belt. Dickie did as instructed.

“Great. Now, lets go. We don’t have a lot of time.”

“We have all the time in the world.”

“What are you talking about,” Dickie snapped. “Duckburg’s morning traffic is terrible, and I need to be at the academy for eight, preferably before eight!”

The Driver leaned pushed her foot down on the brake, and changed the cab's shift. "Yes, Eldritch Academy of Enchantment," she sighed, nostalgia rising skirting on her breath. "Lupa Wolfsbane, The Mistress of Misery, eternally punctual. Don't fret. You’ll be there in five seconds, 3.5 if we’re lucky.”

“I’m sorry, but that is frankly impossible -,”

“We’re here.”

“What?”

She put the car in park, grinning. “I said we’re here,” she gestured to the passenger window. “Eldritch Academy of Enchantment, what a wonderful institution it is. Their graduates have gone to become fantastic sorcerers, politicians, musicians, corrupt magical overlords, fairies. The list goes on.”

Dickie gawked through the window. “I can’t believe this,” she gawked. “I’m here.”

“Is this the weirdest thing to happen to you?”

“No,” she answered. “It isn’t.”’

Satisfied, The Driver unlocked the door, and turned her radio on. "I certainly hope Pandemonium's radio channel has made lunar contact," she sighed, disappointed. "I can't stand another Ottoman Empire marathon, or another Miser Lee's Culinary Catastrophes review script."

Dickie pushed the door open. “I visited one of his restaurants with my mom and Gigi,” she put one foot through the door, “the food was sublime, but nothing compares to -,”

“To a home cooked meal?” She chuckled, “And by the way, bánh xèo smells delicious.”

“Thanks.” Dickie checked her phone, and whistled “6:50 a.m. Wow, you were on time.”

“It's our duty to be there when we’re needed,” she gripped the steering wheel. “I certainly hope you have a good first day, Ms. Con Vit.”

“And you -,” Dickie paused, lingering at the door. She reached over to shake the woman’s hand, feeling slightly out of place with the gesture, “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

The Driver glanced at Dickie's hand, more amused than surprised, and smiled. "Opal," her smooth grip was surprisingly firm. "I'm called Opal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this story, it was meant to be a short multi-chaptered story. About seven chapters, no more than ten, but the story grew and grew. And grew. I was having too much fun to stop. I wanted to see it to the end.
> 
> I want to thank my friends (Rea, Scout). You were there from its conception, and I can't thank you enough for your patience and encouragement (and fair criticism!) 
> 
> To the readers and friends I've made along the way, thank you so much. It was a joy to write this, and don't worry, our golden idiots will return.

**Author's Note:**

> Carl Barks. Don Rosa. DuckTales '87. DuckTales 2017. Fandom headcanons/interpretations. My imagination. It's a stew of duck love. That being said, it's extremely likely due to one specific canon this story will eventually hit 'Explicit', and you will know when that happens.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


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